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Jamie stays quiet through three strokes before trying again. “How come Simon gets his own routine and Oliver doesn’t?”

Oliver will get a routine when he stops looking at doors. If I tell Jamie what I’m waiting for from Oliver, he’ll try to help me take it.

I separate another section of hair.

“Did Simon earn it that fast?” Jamie asks.

I brush his hair because I like the weight of it in my hands. I like the vanilla. I like the way his head tips back a fraction farther with every stroke and the way he waits for my praise as though the rest of the night can’t settle until I give it. Telling him that would make him unbearable.

“Oliver’s training isn’t your business.” I catch a knot near the ends and hold the hair above it so the brush doesn’t pull against his scalp.

“What if he does something ugly again?”

“You tell me.”

The answer fixes some of his expression. His shoulders loosen while I move to the next section.

“And if he asks me for the key?”

“You say no.”

Jamie touches his throat where the key usually sits. “What if he tries to take it?”

“Then you keep it away from him.” I finish the last section and draw the brush slowly through all of his hair. There. Pretty again.

Jamie closes his eyes.

“Good boy.”

Two words put the other dolls back in their rooms.

I set the brush down, apply ointment to the cut at his mouth.

Jamie touches it.

I turn down his blankets. He gets into bed without asking whether his door will stay unlocked tonight. I put Duck beside him and smooth his hair across the pillow. It spreads dark and soft over the blue sheets.

“Beautiful,” I tell him.

Six other Jamies slept on that pillow. His hair looks best on it.

CHAPTER 38

Heather

It takes nineteen days for every face to heal. Jamie’s bruise fades first, Oliver’s split lip closes next, and Simon’s cheek stopped swelling days ago. I check all three beneath the kitchen light before breakfast and find nothing ugly enough to postpone the day again.

Simon’s nightly inspections have come up clean nineteen times. The first few nights he tried to make jokes while I checked him, but he stopped after I withheld his reward for talking when I wanted him still. Now he undresses before I enter, stands where I put him and waits to learn whether he earned my hands.

Simon still asks for his knife every time he needs it, and I still tell him no. His requests have stopped sounding like threats, though, and yesterday he said, “Yes, Chef,” when I corrected his heat. I let him keep the pan after that.

Twice this week I’ve found him at the sink with the water running long after the dishes are clean, looking out at the street. He likes the light in the kitchen. I’ve started leaving the blind up for him.

Oliver takes his pills, follows instructions and answers to Oliver without making me punish him for it. He also watches every door that opens and listens whenever my keys move. I know better than to confuse good behavior with improvement.

Jamie’s progress is easier to see. The closet key has worn a faint mark beneath the silver ring on his choker because he touches it too often. He no longer asks whether I trust him. He wears the answer around his throat.

On the nineteenth morning, I take all three upstairs after breakfast and dress them for tea.