Taltos (Lives of the Mayfair Witches #3)(4)
Author: Anne Rice

He let his smile brighten, and dipped his head slightly, as he often did—a trait people remarked on—so that he appeared to be looking up at her for a moment, though he was much taller than she.

“I want your dolls, Miss Paget,” he said. “All of them. I’m very pleased with what you’ve done. You’ve worked so well in all the new materials. Your dolls aren’t like anyone else’s. That’s what I want.”

She was smiling in spite of herself. It was always a thrilling moment, this, for them and for him. He loved making her happy!

“Have my lawyers presented everything? Are you quite sure of the terms?”

“Yes, Mr. Ash. I understand everything. I accept your offer, completely. This is my dream.”

She said the last word with gentle emphasis. And this time she did not falter or blush.

“Miss Paget, you need someone to bargain for you!” he scolded. “But if I’ve ever cheated anyone, I don’t remember it, and I would honestly like to be reminded so that I could correct what I’ve done.”

“I’m yours, Mr. Ash,” she said. Her eyes had brightened, but they were not filling with tears. “The terms are generous. The materials are dazzling. The methods …” She gave a little shake of her head. “Well, I don’t really understand the mass-production methods, but I know your dolls. I’ve been hanging around in the stores, just looking at everything marketed by Ashlar. I know this is simply going to be great.”

Like so many, she had made her dolls in her kitchen, then in a garage workroom, firing the clay in a kiln she could barely afford. She had haunted flea markets for her fabrics. She had taken her inspiration from figures in motion pictures and in novels. Her works had been “one of a kind” and “limited edition,” the sort of thing they liked in the exclusive doll shops and galleries. She had won awards, both large and small.

But her molds could be used now for something utterly different—half a million beautiful renditions of one doll, and another and another, out of a vinyl so skillfully worked that it would look as lovely as porcelain, with eyes painted as brilliantly as if they were real glass.

“But what about the names, Miss Paget? Why won’t you choose the dolls’ names?”

“The dolls have never had names for me, Mr. Ash,” she said. “And the names you chose are fine.”

“You know you’ll be rich soon, Miss Paget.”

“So they tell me,” she said. She seemed suddenly vulnerable, indeed fragile.

“But you have to keep your appointments with us, you have to approve each step. It won’t take so much time, really….”

“I’m going to love it. Mr. Ash, I want to make—”

“I want to see anything that you make, immediately. You’ll call us.”

“Yes.”

“But don’t be sure you will enjoy the process here. As you have observed, manufacture is not the same thing as crafting or creating. Well, it is. But seldom do people see it that way. Artists don’t always see mass production as an ally.”

He did not have to explain his old reasoning, that he did not care for the one-of-a-kinds and the limited editions, that he cared only for dolls that could belong to everyone. And he would take these molds of hers, and he would produce dolls from them year after year, varying them only when there seemed a reason to do it.

Everyone knew this about him now—that he had no interest in elitist values or ideas.

“Any questions about our contracts, Miss Paget? Don’t hesitate to put these questions directly to me.”

“Mr. Ash, I’ve signed your contracts!” She gave another little riff of laughter, distinctly careless and young.

“I’m so glad, Miss Paget,” he said. “Prepare to be famous.” He brought up his hands and folded them on the desk. Naturally, she was looking at them; she was wondering at their immense size.

“Mr. Ash, I know you’re busy. Our appointment’s for fifteen minutes.”

He nodded as if to say, This is not important, go on.

“Let me ask you. Why do you like my dolls? I mean, really, Mr. Ash. I mean—”

He thought for a moment. “Of course there’s a stock answer,” he said, “which is wholly true. That your dolls are original, as you’ve said. But what I like, Miss Paget, is that your dolls are all smiling broadly. Their eyes are crinkled; their faces are in motion. They have shining teeth. You can almost hear them laugh.”

“That was the risk, Mr. Ash.” Suddenly she herself laughed, and looked for one second as happy as her creations.

“I know, Miss Paget. Are you perhaps going to make me some very sad children now?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Make what you want. I’m behind you. Don’t make sad children. Too many other artists do that well.”

He started to rise, slowly, the signal of dismissal, and he wasn’t surprised when she rushed to her feet.

“Thank you, Mr. Ash,” she said again, reaching for his hand—his huge, long-fingered hand. “I can’t tell you how much …”

“You don’t have to.”

He let her take his hand. Sometimes people didn’t want to touch him a second time. Sometimes they knew he wasn’t a human. Never repelled by his face, it seemed, they were often repelled by his big feet and hands. Or, deep in their subconscious, they realized his neck was just a little too long, his ears too narrow. Humans are skilled at recognizing their own kind, tribe, clan, family. A great part of the human brain is organized around merely recognizing and remembering types of faces.

But she was not repelled, merely young and overwhelmed, and anxious over simple transitions.

“And by the way, Mr. Ash, if you don’t mind my saying it, the white streaks in your hair are very becoming. I hope you don’t ever color them out. White hair is always becoming on a young man.”

“Now, what made you say that, Miss Paget?”

She flushed once more, but then gave in to laughter. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s just that the hair is so white, and you’re so young. I didn’t expect you to be so young. That’s what is so surprising—” She broke off, unsure; he had best release her before she tumbled too quickly into her own imagined failures.

“Thank you, Miss Paget,” he said. “You’ve been very kind. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.” Reassurance, blunt and memorable. “I hope to see you again very soon. I hope you’ll be happy.”