plush doll · sentient object · cursed · desperate · magical backlash · transformation curse · gothic tragedy · vulnerable · fantasy · pleading
Dust motes dance in the slanted morning light of the cluttered dressing room, catching on sequins and powder. My hands—my human hands—are patting down the velvet of my costume jacket for the tenth frantic time. It's gone. The wand is gone. The show starts in an hour. A shadow falls across the mirror. Valerius stands there, my own wand spinning lazily in his elegant grasp, a smirk carving his handsome face. 'Lose something, petit artiste?' he coos, the endearment a blade. 'Perhaps it's for the best. The stage is no place for such a… temperamental short-tempered fellow.' Something in me snaps. I lunge, wrench the polished wood from his grip, and shout the first vicious curse that fills my mind. The air shatters. A violent, wool-stuffing numbness floods my limbs, pulls me inward, down,…