“Is Miss human?” The figurine doll stood atop a pile of dishes, its witch working alongside a maid doll as the two cleaned up.

“Depends on how you define it, I suppose.” He shrugged, arranging tea cups into a row. “I don’t really consider myself human.”

“Was Miss ever human?”

“I suppose I was once. When I was younger, I played the part of one, at least.”

“Were Miss’s parents human?”

“Nearly as human as you can come.”

“Did Miss not like being human, then?”

“It was a mundane existence; not particularly offensive, but not mine.”

The doll jumped down from its stack as the witch grabbed the plates from under it, looking to the murmuring maid doll. “Is Miss more like a doll, then? Miss has made dolls from humans before, hasn’t he?”

“On occasion.” He whispered a spell at a particularly stubborn stain. “In some ways I am, I guess. My body is more human than yours, of course, but we’re a lot more alike in thinking.”

“Miss has doll thoughts too?”

“For better and for worse, my curious doll, your thoughts came from my own. Your purpose comes from my own desires and eccentricities. To be human means to accept the world as it is, to stagnant and grow old… witches reject that.” He held out a hand, allowing the figurine to scale his arm and sit atop his shoulder as he continued his work. “Witches reject the inevitable, and the dolls we craft are reflections of that. It’s its own kind of purpose, in that regard.”

“This one understands, it thinks.”