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I sit beside him and lift the hair away from his face.

Jamie turns his head into my hand. He makes a small sound in the back of his throat and presses his cheek more firmly into my palm, following the touch when my thumb moves across his skin.

I take my hand away.

Jamie follows it through his sleep, cheek turning across the pillow in search of me. His body is learning faster than the rest of him.

“Such a good boy.” I pass my thumb over his cheek again.

His arm shifts around Duck, and the movement brings his other hand out from beneath the blanket. The bracelet catches the light from the mushroom lamp.

I take his wrist and turn it until his name faces up.

His fingers curl around mine before going slack again. Even asleep, he answers to what I made him.

I bend close enough that my mouth brushes his temple. “Tomorrow, you learn to share.”

Jamie sleeps through it.

I leave him curled around Duck and lock the door.

I go downstairs to the playroom.

The dollhouse is dark, but I don’t turn on the room lights. I switch on the little ones inside instead, and the house comes alive from the bottom up. The kitchen first, then the playroom, the hallway, the bedrooms upstairs.

Jamie’s blue room isn’t empty anymore. His doll is still where I left him, lying in bed with his black hair spread over the pillow. I can smell vanilla when I lean close enough. Fainter now, but still there.

I should spray him again tomorrow.

Oliver is waiting on the shelf.

I pick him up from beside the last doll and push his glasses back into place with my fingertip. They’re made from thin wire, bent around the end of one of Dad’s old paintbrushes to shape the frames. One side has never been perfectly even, but I stopped trying to fix it years ago. I like them this way.

He’s dressed formally. Dark trousers, white shirt, little gray vest beneath a jacket. His hair is neat and his mouth is serious. He looks like he has somewhere important to be and doesn’t expect to enjoy himself when he gets there.

I turn toward the dollhouse.

His green bedroom is waiting. The bed is made. The books are on the shelves. Everything is ready for him.

I reach for the front of the house, then stop. The little silver bar flashes through my mind.

“You thought you had a secret.”

I carry him to the table. His jacket comes off first. I fold it and set it beside him, then work the tiny buttons of his shirt loose. They’re decorative after the first one, so the shirt comes over his head easily enough. I lay Oliver on his back.

My craft box is under the table. I pull it out and set it beside Oliver, then lift the lid.

Everything shifts inside. Beads, clasps, jump rings, embroidery thread, ribbon, elastic, wire, little bottles of paint. I move the bracelet cord out of the way and open the compartment with the metal beads.

Gold. I push those aside. There are black ones underneath, and some little pearl ones I bought for something I never ended up making. I dig beneath them with one finger until something silver catches the light.

“There you are.”

Two tiny silver beads roll into my palm. They’re almost right.

I put one beside Oliver’s bare chest to check the size. Too big. I put it back and keep looking. The smaller ones are at the bottom. I find two that match and place them on the table so they can’t escape, then pull out the spool of thin silver wire. The first one is too stiff. I know before I even bend it.

Oliver waits while I put it away and choose another. This one bends easily between my fingers. I hold it against his chest, measuring with my thumbnail, then reach into the box for the little wire cutters.