PROLOGUE He wheels her out into the road. He should stay hidden, but part of him wants to be seen: he deserves her. He has waited long enough, worked hard enough. She belongs to him, dressed forever in the same red skirt with the same pink shoes tied around her ankles. Lace and net graze against her motionless thighs. Her skin is smooth porcelain and her lips are pink. Never has there been a lovelier figure, unchanging, unbroken by the pace of time. Her sightless eyes will not fade. A beautiful statue, preserved forever. He has watched her for so long, holding her in his gaze, locking her into position like a photograph. He imagines dancing with her, the two of them arm in arm under the stars. Silent, of course, but that is no matter. It is better that way. She is a dancing doll, his Coppélia, created at last. He can finally believe it, now that he has her in the wheelchair. Pausing at the end of the street, he reaches down to her wrist and lifts her arm above her as if she is waving to a crowd. Ice-cold. He drops her arm in fright. Life lingers, like a promise; but he is afraid of what will happen when she wakes. He needs to move quickly. Excerpted from The Dance of the Dolls by Lucy Ashe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
