The Dollmaker


 
 
 
 
 THE DOLLMAKER
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 MORGAN SHAMY
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CONTENTS
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Chapter 1
 
 
 Chapter 2
 
 
 Chapter 3
 
 
 Chapter 4
 
 
 Chapter 5
 
 
 Chapter 6
 
 
 Chapter 7
 
 
 Chapter 8
 
 
 Chapter 9
 
 
 Chapter 10
 
 
 Chapter 11
 
 
 Chapter 12
 
 
 Chapter 13
 
 
 Chapter 14
 
 
 Chapter 15
 
 
 Chapter 16
 
 
 Chapter 17
 
 
 Chapter 18
 
 
 Chapter 19
 
 
 Chapter 20
 
 
 Chapter 21
 
 
 Chapter 22
 
 
 Chapter 23
 
 
 Chapter 24
 
 
 Chapter 25
 
 
 Chapter 26
 
 
 Chapter 27
 
 
 Acknowledgments
 
 
 About the Author
 
 
 More from CamCat Books
 
 
 The Murder of Madison Garcia
 
 
 
 
 More Thrilling Books From CamCat Publishing
 
 
 CamCat Books
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CamCat Publishing, LLC
 Brentwood, Tennessee 37027
 camcatpublishing.com
 
 
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
 ©2023 by Morgan Shamy
 All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, address CamCat Publishing, 101 Creekside Crossing, Suite 280, Brentwood, TN 37027.
 
 
 Hardcover ISBN 9780744308624
 Paperback ISBN 9780744308648
 Large-Print Paperback ISBN 9780744308686
 eBook ISBN 9780744308709
 Audiobook ISBN 9780744308716
 
 
 Library of Congress Control Number: 2022944733
 Cover and book design by Maryann Appel
 5 3 1 2 4
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 For my Uncle Dean,
 who’s made my life pure magic.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1
 
 
 
 
 
 
 STANDING ON AIR
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Newport, Rhode Island, 1920
 
 
 Fingertips stretched at length, gliding through the air, smooth against the heavy beat of the music. Necks stretched long and slender, and feet pattered on the floor, pointe shoes clicking. With thinly muscled legs and tiny waists, the girls in the old studio wove in and out of each other, jumping in time with the music. Shadows shifted over their white tutus and pink silk tights, their bodies reflected in the large mirror that hung on one side of the room.
 Dawn Hildegard tilted her head sideways, expelling a constricted breath. She stood off to the side, her loose gray dress drab in the room. Next to the girls, she was a goose surrounded by swans. She fiddled with the silk scarf around her neck and analyzed the girls more closely, checking for injuries.
 She zeroed in on the ballerina in the center of the room with her curls pinned tightly into her golden bun. Early-morning sunlight filtered in through the tall windows in the corner, highlighting the soft bones of her face, her lashes long and dark. Color dotted the ballerina’s cheeks from exertion, but she seemed to float through the room, dancing as if it were effortless.
 Rose Waterford was the prima in the company; no one touched her grace and extension. Even though the other girls in the company looked unearthly with their slender frames and porcelain skin, Rose exceeded them all. The Newport Gazette had called her “poetry on air” after her performance in Giselle last season.
 Dawn studied Rose more closely. She was favoring her right leg, a slight limp as she moved from position to position. Her feet must have been bothering her again.
 The ballet master, Caldwell, paced at the front of the class, tapping a wooden stick, yelling at the girls to stay in time with the music. His jaw was cut strong along the sides of his face, his dark hair a curly mop on his head. His open white shirt exposed his chest, sweat running down his bare skin.
 “Stop, stop.” Caldwell waved to the pianist, and the music ceased, the deep notes hanging in the air. He faced the girls head on. “A corps de ballet needs to be one. Like puppets on a string, you need to all move in sync. I expect perfection, and perfect is not what I’m getting.” A single dark brow lifted as his eyes slid to Rose. “Except for you, Miss Waterford.”
 Pink flushed Rose’s cheeks, but she kept her head level. The girls around her shifted their weight, some sneaking a glance at her.
 “That’s enough for now.” Caldwell motioned for the girls to leave, his New York accent coming through. He’d only been the ballet master for about a month but clearly had command over the girls. “We will resume rehearsals on stage tonight for Coppelia. Rose, if I could have a word?”
 The room seemed to exhale at once, and the girls departed, grabbing their hand towels from the barres. They brushed past Dawn, their thin muscles flexing as they walked, their chatter drifting behind them. Dawn shifted out of the way, letting them by. She peeked at herself in the dusty mirror in front of her. She hated the way her eyes resembled two black bruises, as if she hadn’t slept in a week. Her dark hair hung in tangles over her face, where the other girls kept their curls pinned tightly to their heads. The color of her stained dress matched her demeanor, muted against the morning light.
 She wasn’t surprised she was sleep deprived; being Dr. Miller’s assistant was an endless job, often calling her to visit patients’ homes in the dead of night. She had shown