“I mean no harm,” Darkwell insisted.
“I did not come to argue,” the constable said, waving his cane in the air. “I came to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“There is talk in the village,” Koben said, lowering his voice. “Talk of burning you out. The torches are already lit, Darkwell. Do you understand? The townspeople’s anger—it cannot be controlled.”
Darkwell stared at the constable, allowing his words to sink in.
“Get out!” Koben shouted. “Leave now! You and your nephew. Pack up and get out if you value your lives!”
The constable spun on his cane and stomped from the cottage. The slender door banged in the swirling wind. Darkwell pulled the door closed, feeling the cold air on his face.
He shivered, but not from the cold. He shivered in anger that his work would be interrupted. He was about to finish his most magical creation yet. He couldn’t allow the foolish, ignorant villagers to destroy his masterpiece.
Darkwell leaned over the workbench all night, his hands working feverishly. And now he held the doll in front of him.
“Those fools will be sorry,” he told the doll. “They have pushed me too far. Once you are finished, we will make them sorry they are alive.”