Page 5 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
“Welcome,” says Drosselmeyer, “to my showroom.” And he flings open the doors.
Beyond, uplit by golden gaslight, lies an immense domed space, huge enough to swallow us up—so enormous I feel like an ant beneath a giant’s bell jar. Iron beams crisscross overhead, supporting the large curved panes of glass, a frosty layer between us and the black night. To some faraway traveler, the glass dome must glow like an amber beacon amid the stretches of bleak countryside.
In the center of the sprawling tiled floor is a giant round platform with circular tiers of shelves. On the shelves repose various mechanical contraptions, mostly of the clockwork variety. Other knickknacks, bits, and bobs are tucked away on the rows of shelving that line the left-hand wall, and I catch a glimpse of more items secreted in glass cabinets to my right.
Amid the bronze gleam and the brassy glitter, Clara seems utterly overcome. “My god,” she breathes, then covers her mouth. “I’m sorry for using strong language, but—it’s so incredibly beautiful.”
Beneath his neatly pointed beard, Drosselmeyer’s mouth parts in a smile. He steps over to a crank on the wall and begins to work it, and as he does, the circular platform starts to revolve slowly. Once it picks up speed, he lets it go, and it continues turning without further interference.
“These are primarily items for household and business use,” he says. “But there’s something back here I think you’ll appreciate a good deal more.”
He leads us around the revolving platform, into the rear half of the room—and this time I gasp in tandem with Clara.
The entire back section of the space is occupied by an enormous dollhouse, built right out of the wall, with its first floor about knee-high. Tiny gaslamps gleam in its windows, illuminating parlors, hallways, bedrooms, a kitchen, a dining space, even an attic.
“Watch.” Drosselmeyer opens a panel nearby and pushes a few buttons. With a soft whirr, figures begin to move through the interior spaces of the dollhouse, gliding along prescribed paths.
The whole thing is as strange as it is fantastic. First of all there’s the unusual size of the dolls—they’re each about the length of my forearm, from elbow to middle finger—which makes the house itself simply enormous as a plaything. But it’s not a plaything, of course, because it belongs to a grown man, an inventor who for some reason has spent his time outfitting the entire thing with miniature furniture.
I suppose when you build practical things to sell, you must sometimes indulge in a passion project on the side. But it seems an odd choice for a man like him—carving these wooden dolls or puppets and setting them into a furnished house.
“Can they come out of the doors? Or look out the windows?” I ask.
“No, they do precisely what they are made to do, and no more,” replies Drosselmeyer.
“Hm.” I walk along the front of the house, peering inside. The dolls inside look a little off to me—strangely proportioned, somehow. They have fierce eyes and grimly painted smiles. Some have sharp teeth and pointed ears. Others have tiny wooden claws.
“May I touch one?” Clara asks. No wonder she wants to look more closely; every doll’s outfit is painted onto their body in exquisite detail. Some even have tiny cloaks of real satin.
“This is my newest addition.” Drosselmeyer reaches toward the front door of the dollhouse, where stands a male doll with handsome carven features and a scarlet uniform, like a soldier’s. “This one is a bit of an experiment. He isn’t just a doll, see?” He tweaks something on the doll’s back, and its mouth opens wide. “You can place a nut just here, and crack the shell between his jaws.”
“Oh, I want to try!” I exclaim. “Where are the nuts?”
Clara frowns, but Drosselmeyer chuckles. “In the kitchen. There’s a row of canisters, all labeled.”
“Back in a blink.” I dash off to the kitchen, leaving Clara to inspect the artistry of the painted clothing.
When I enter the kitchen, I’m startled by the presence of three automatons. Their wooden heads swivel on wooden necks, scarlet mouths grinning at me, painted eyes glossy in the dim light. One is stacking dishes. The other two are simply standing close together, as if I interrupted a chat.
Which is ridiculous, because puppet-creatures can’t speak.
Eyeing them sidelong, I step over to the counter where a series of ceramic canisters stand in a row. I select a handful of whole walnuts and then hurry back to the showroom.
“Ah, you found them.” Drosselmeyer meets my eyes. “You look a bit pale, Louisa. Are you well?”
“Some of your puppet-servants were there, that’s all.” I toss him a nut, and he catches it easily. “Creepy, aren’t they?”
“I suppose they are, if one isn’t used to them.” He sets a nut between the Nutcracker’s jaws and works the lever at the rear. The walnut shell cracks and gives way.
Clara catches it and extracts the nut meat, popping it into her mouth. “Delicious.”
“My turn!” I shoulder in beside her.
Drosselmeyer laughs. “All my inventions, and the two of you are fascinated with a simple nutcracker.”
“Papa didn’t let us have nuts,” I tell him. “Thought they were bad for our teeth.”
“Nonsense.” Drosselmeyer sighs. “Your father was a good friend, but some of his ideas—”
