Page 1 of Girl, Sought

PROLOGUE

Sunday nights belonged to the dolls. Eleanor Calloway wouldn't have it any other way. The rest of Chesapeake might be tucking in for the night, but Eleanor had work to do. Real work. Not the mind-numbing days she spent at the library, watching patrons manhandle first editions and put their greasy fingers all over the reference section.

No. This was her true calling.

The collection room used to be a parlor, back when houses still had parlors. Now the walls were lined with custom-built mahogany cases, each one climate-controlled, each one housing perfection in porcelain form. Lesser collectors kept their dolls in basic display cabinets from IKEA, and the thought made Eleanor's lip curl. Philistines.

She flicked on the brass lamp at her restoration station. December rain peppered the windows, but in here the air stayed precisely 68 degrees, the humidity a constant 45 percent. Eleanor had spent a small fortune on the environmental controls. Worth every penny to protect her babies.

The brass key hung heavy around her neck. Eleanor had worn it there since Thomas died five years ago. Back then, the other librarians whispered about how she was ‘handling it.’ They meant the money, of course. The insurance payout. What else would a widow spend it on but dolls?

They didn't understand. These weren't just dolls. Each one held a piece of history in their porcelain hands. Take Adelaide, for instance. Eleanor lifted the German bisque doll from her place of honor. Adelaide's face bore the master craftsmanship of 1885 Kestner. Those hand-painted features - the perfect rosebud mouth, the grey-blue eyes - they didn't make them like this anymore.

The restoration table waited. Eleanor had arranged her tools with surgical precision: specialized cleaning solutions, precise brushes, cotton swabs, a jeweler's loupe. She'd learned these habits in the rare books room. A curator's attention to detail translated well to her private passion.

Time melted away as she worked. The grandfather clock struck eleven. Eleanor looked up from Mathilda, a French beauty from 1902, and realized she hadn't even started on the Kestner twins. The twins were special - she'd driven all the way to an estate sale in Baltimore to find them. Their previous owner had stored them in an attic. Criminal.

The twins deserved better. Everyone knew Kestner dolls required specialized care, particularly around the eyes. Those glass orbs contained real arsenic - a detail that never failed to fascinate Eleanor's guests, on the rare occasions she allowed visitors into her sanctuary. The previous owner hadn't even kept them in a proper display case. Just cardboard boxes stuffed with newspaper. Eleanor had nightmares about finding them that way, their perfect faces wrapped in the Baltimore Sun's sports section.

She lifted the first twin from her case. Annabeth. Or was this one Margaret? Even Eleanor sometimes mixed them up, though she'd never admit it to her collector friends.

Not that she had many of those left. Most had dropped away after Thomas died when the dolls began to take over the house. First the parlor, then the dining room, and finally Thomas's study. She needed the space. The collection had grown.

Eleanor adjusted her lamp and picked up her favorite horsehair brush. Each doll required specific tools. Proper restoration wasn't something you could rush. The other librarians never understood why she took such long lunches. They assumed she ate alone in some dingy cafe, the poor widow drowning her sorrows in coffee and romance novels. In truth, she spent those precious hours hunting. Estate sales. Antique shops. Online auctions. The collection didn't build itself.

The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour. Eleanor's neck ached from bending over her work. She'd been at it for nearly two hours now, but the twins still needed their weekly cleaning. The clock could strike midnight for all she cared. This was important work. Preservation. History.

The dolls demanded a certain touch. Firm, but not overly so. Even after five years alone, muscle memory recalled how she'd once touched Thomas this same way. But Thomas had been flesh and blood. These perfect creatures would outlive them all.

Margaret - yes, this was definitely Margaret - needed work around the joints. The socket where leg met hip had developed a hairline crack. Nothing serious yet, but Eleanor had seen enough damaged dolls to know how quickly small problems became catastrophic.

The restoration kit held a specialized adhesive from Germany. Eleanor had paid three hundred dollars for a single tube.

Rain drummed harder against the windows. The old Victorian's gutters would overflow if this kept up. Eleanor had meant to have them cleaned, but finding someone trustworthy proved difficult. Most handymen took one look at her collection and got that look in their eyes. Dollar signs. As if she'd leave them alone with her treasures.

She reached for her jeweler's loupe. The crack needed closer inspection.

Then a floorboard creaked downstairs.

Eleanor lifted her head, then forced herself to return to her work. Old houses made noise. If she was one of those believer types, she’d guess there were ghosts and spirits and whatever else holed up in this place, but the thought didn’t unnerve her, because the part of her that wasn’t a jaded cynic thought that maybe Thomas could be amongst them.

Back to the doll. The loupe revealed more damage than she'd initially suspected. The crack spread like a spider's web across the joint. Margaret would need professional restoration. Eleanor kept a list of trusted conservators, but the nearest one worked out of Philadelphia. The thought of shipping her precious cargo made her stomach clench.

She reached for her notebook to write down the measurements of the damage. Her pen had rolled off the table.

The grandfather clock struck midnight. Eleanor counted the chimes out of habit. One. Two. Three.

Another creak from downstairs. This one louder. Closer to the stairs.

Four. Five. Six.

Eleanor gently set Margaret down with a shaking hand.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Something changed in Eleanor's body before her mind caught up. A surge through her limbs, blood through her ears. Her stomach dropped away like she'd missed a step in the dark.

Her phone was charging in the kitchen. Stupid. She knew better than to leave it downstairs.

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