“Sit still, dear, this is delicate work.”

I do my best to obey, trying to shut out the tickle of my Maker’s tools like I would any other sensation. It doesn’t do me much good – my phylactery is sensitive in a way my vessel isn’t, and no matter how hard I try to ignore it the work of sealing the little cracks in that vibrant purple gemstone buzzes inside me like an electric arc.

Despite myself, I fidget restlessly, and my Maker’s patience grows thin.

“If you can’t sit still on your own, I’ll need to disconnect your phylactery entirely. Now behave, dear.”

The threat of being pulled into that absent blackness does its job – I find it in me to ignore the buzzing, jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other. My Maker gives an approving little noise, then continues on with her work, tone softening once more.

“There’s a good doll. You know what would have happened if you’d succeeded.”

I give the slightest nod, still focused on keeping still, on not flinching away from the sizzle her iron makes as it carefully and precisely seals the cracks in my phylactery, whispering the artifact whole again. If I’d succeeded, I’d be dead.

“I’m nearly done, now, dear. Just a moment longer to make sure the mounting is still set correctly.”

I close my eyes, let the ticking of my metronome provide me some meager stability. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the buzzing in my soul fades and I can feel my Maker pull away, feel her satisfaction with her work.

“There. You can relax now, dear.”

With a gentle sigh, I open my eyes again, let my jaw relax, let my breathing resume. I take a moment to reaffirm my surroundings – sat on the edge of a workbench in my Maker’s studio, stripped of my clothes, one arm wrapped in a brace to prevent the spiderweb of fractures that reach all the way up to my chest from worsening. My Maker is sat turned away from me on a tall stool, carefully replacing the iron in the appropriate drawer.

Turning back towards me, she slips one of many tuning forks out of her work apron, twirling it between her fingers. I say nothing, but I feel a blush creep across my face, warmth tinging my cool porcelain skin at the thought of what must be coming next.

“Yes, dear,” she says, catching my reaction. “I’m going to need to tune you.”

“Just stay relaxed and let yourself sink into it... there’s a good doll...”

She taps one talon against the tip of the fork, sets it singing, and leans in to gently press it into one of my aetheric hooks – I can’t help but do as she says, sinking, sinking, feeling my consciousness pulled inwards towards my phylactery, leaving my vessel a hazy afterthought.

I can feel her winding one of my threads, feel the tune of her fork vibrate into me, her intent a hypnotic, drowning tide that pours in along the thread, filling me up until at last I can take no more, resist no more, and I fall inward, into the comforting warmth of a trance.

...and then I’m wide awake again.

“Such a good doll...” my Maker reassures me, gently stroking one hand through my silver hair, cupping my cheek. I realize I must have been crying – my face is wet against her hand.

“W-what...” I stammer, trying to gauge how long I was entranced. It can’t have been too long – the beam of sunlight that enters the studio through it’s tall, narrow window has only inched across the floor.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright dear. I just had to make a few changes to you. I can’t have one of my dolls hurting herself, now, can I?”

I frown. Hurting myself? Had I...? No, no, that would be silly. Even the thought of it made me recoil instinctively, the fear of a rebuke sharp in my mind for considering the mere possibility.

...Wait.

Oh. Of course. I realize immediately what my Maker meant by her words – I’d had a new rule implanted in me.

Something must have shown in my expression, because my Maker nodded softly, tipped her talons beneath my chin, and raised my violet eyes to meet her brilliant amber ones.

“Most of my dolls know better than to damage themselves all on their own,” she explained, “but sometimes these things happen. Do you remember why I needed to repair you, dear?”

I start to shake my head, then stop, pausing to examine myself. My right arm is fractured, kept safe in a brace. I experimentally test my fingers, and find them stiff, barely responsive. The mechanisms must be quite damaged. I close my eyes and trace my self-image up from the near-paralyzed arm, up and up, across my chest where the cracks spread and blossom...

I try to imagine what might have caused this sort of damage, but nothing comes.

“...I don’t remember,” I finally admit uncertainly.

My Maker smiles softly, nods. “Good. I’ll tell you, but I didn’t feel it appropriate to leave you with the memory itself. You beat yourself to breaking against a wall, dear. You wailed and wailed and smashed yourself, and then you tried to smash your phylactery. I found you, afterwards, all pulled into yourself, and I took you home to fix you.”

I can hardly believe what she’s saying. I... I tried to destroy myself? Why would I... how could I? A doll should never harm herself.

(Dimly, I remember that that last part is a recent command, a compulsion implanted deep into my soul. It doesn’t matter – I feel it strongly all the same.)

Finally, I find the words to ask my Maker why I had tried to... to kill myself.

She answers with a question of her own, and once again I’m frozen as I realize I don’t know the answer.

“Dear, do you remember why you sold yourself to me? Why you had me make you into a doll?”

How... how could I forget something like that? How could I forget when it had only been a few months? I can vividly recall my life as a human, recall the process of being made into a doll, the blissful feeling of my soul being gently pried from my body and nestled snugly into my phylactery, of my vessel being transfigured from flesh and blood into ceramic and glass and brass, given life by my Maker’s magic...

But when I tried to recall what had driven me to such a permanent decision, I found only a dull ache of longing surrounding a hazy nothingness.

My Maker waits patiently, and under her gaze I feel compelled to try harder to provide a satisfying answer to her question.

Biting my lip, I try to feel out the space around the haze. I remember being... dissatisfied with my life, with who I was, and at how little my attempts to change it seemed to matter. I remember a feeling of elated certainty that this was the way, this was what I had been looking for. I remember... remember...

She must have been very careful in excising the memories she’d asked me to locate, because when I finally find an answer, it’s only in the outline of what’s missing.

The look of pained realization in my eyes proves all the response my Maker requires of me; gently, tenderly, she pulls me to her chest, lets me cry and whimper against her, whispers gentle reassurances. It would be too painful, she tells me, to make you bear those memories. You know everything you need to know about what happened.

I fight it at first, recoil at the idea of being left with a hole in my memory like this. But as she cradles me close and kisses my perfect silver hair and fusses at my broken arm, promises to make me good as new, I realize that she’s right.

Her talons stroke me gently, trailing up and down my spine in a lazy circuit as she hugs me close. Her voice is like a lullaby at this point, drawing out the ache and tension until I feel my springs start to unwind, feel a comfortable weight creep into my vessel as all my strings go limp.

“You’re a good doll, dear... such a good doll. You have a purpose now, alright? Dolls all have a purpose. And you’ll never forget that.”

I nod tiredly, sniffling, aware I’m leaking all over her apron.

She doesn’t seem to mind.

Before long, I’m at peace.