"One maiden plays with lightning,
Her fingers red with fire.
One maiden plays with puppets,
Who move at her desire.
The sparks that fly between them,
Are bright enough to blind.
But in the shroud of darkness,
Those sparks burn warm and kind."
She remembers the days of obscurity. She remembers the months of isolation.
She remembers the years passing by like the wind that brushes against her windows, touching the walls and turning away sadly – as though her mansion were not a mansion but, in fact, a coffin, and the breeze had come to pay its last respects. Inside the coffin, she sat alone, surrounded by dolls, mannequins, stuffed toys, puppets… but nothing that really lived.
With her magic, she can blow movement into her creations. She can induce thought. She can even grant them a will of their own. Yet they still do not live, because they lack what makes a being truly alive: a soul.
They are not born. They are made. And so they can only ever be an approximation, a mockery of life itself.
She watches idly as her two dolls-in-chief, Shanghai and Hourai, busy themselves with the housework. One has a broom in hand, the other a mop. They scurry about, poking their respective instruments of cleaning into nooks and crannies, waving them over walls and floorboards with extravagant flourishes, never resting until the spot they've been working on sparkles joyfully at its own immaculate appearance.
Within the hour, the musty odor lurking at the back of Alice's nose is gone, and in its place is the fresh aroma of lemongrass. It is her favorite smell, and not just because it clears her mind and soothes her throat.
It reminds her of the first day they met.
One day, the hole at the top of the well opened, and the blinding circle of white that shone down at Alice was immediately punctured by a curious, wide-eyed face, whose expression looked just as bright as the light pouring in from behind her.
The dollmaker did not remember the last time she had seen a face as welcoming and unafraid as the one that confronted her now. Gensokyo was accustomed to magicians and conjurers, yet there was something about one who played with dolls and puppets that unnerved the humans living in the Village. Dolls were, at their essence, crude caricatures of people, and their uncanny resemblance to humans struck an undertone of fear in those few who had the rare opportunity to witness Alice's magic. It did not help that Alice had molded her dolls in her own image – many of them were golden-haired and blue-eyed, just like she was – which only gave off the impression that she was attempting to play god with her creations. The rumors spread amongst the populace, as they always did, and in time Alice was effectively banished from the rest of the world.
She didn't particularly mind. She had never been one for friendship or acquaintance, and now that people had a reason – however superficial – to leave her alone, she was happy for the stereotyping to go on… as long as she had no knowledge of it. And during the few times that she did visit the Human Village, she was made all too aware of her ostracization by the stares, the whispers, and the pointed fingers that greeted her. It grieved her to see their fear, but that grief was ultimately numbed by the relentless passage of time.
Eventually, Alice stopped leaving her house altogether, preferring to let her dolls handle the heavy lifting. She lay in her bed or sat in her armchair, watching the sun and moon streak across the sky, chasing each other's tails endlessly, even though they knew would never catch up. Hours turned to days, days turned to months, and months turned to years. All the while, Alice was static, stagnant, wasting away in mind and spirit, even as her body remained pure and untouched by rot. She toyed with the idea of ending her own life, but even that seemed to be not worth the effort.
Then, as if by magic, the clouds parted, and in flew a rainbow that splashed its color all over the dreary, gray environs that had imprisoned her for so long.
"Nice to meet you," said the rainbow, whose smile speared straight into Alice's heart. "My name's Marisa. You're Alice, right?"
Alice stared at the intruder, but did not speak. It wasn't as if she had forgotten how to make sounds with her mouth – it had simply been ages since she had last needed to. The insides of her mouth squirmed and convulsed, as though re-learning how to talk, but that requisite final burst of air simply wasn't there. She opened and closed her lips, gulping like a goldfish. Seeing this, Marisa began to chuckle, which soon grew into a full-hearted belly laugh. She keeled over, her face creasing with unbridled entertainment. Meanwhile, Alice continued to gasp for the words she wanted to say.
Eventually, Marisa wiped the tears from her eyes and moved towards the little dollmaker, kneeling at her feet. Slowly, she placed her hands on Alice's lap.
"You don't have to say anything," the witch said. Within those ochre irises, Alice could see nothing but kindness, sympathy, and an overwhelming desire to help. "You've been in here a long time, haven't you?"
Gradually, Alice nodded. Tears were pooling at the corners of her own eyes, and Marisa extended a finger to wipe them away.
"Come with me," whispered Marisa. Alice could not help but oblige, yet her feet were unaccustomed to movement, and the moment she tried to stand, they gave way. However, before she could fall onto the cold, hard floor, Marisa reached out and hoisted her aloft, holding her close, pulling Alice's face towards hers.
"You're so light," she noted with a smile.
And for the first time in who knew how long, Alice replied.
"Sorry for being so light," she croaked as she stared into Marisa's eyes. Their noses were a whisker away from touching, but Marisa appeared totally unperturbed by this lack of distance.
The witch's smile widened. "So, you can talk after all," she said, and winked.
What happened next was beyond any reasonable expectation.
Perhaps out of instinct, or perhaps out of a newly-awakened, irrepressible desire for contact, the dollmaker leaned forwards and touched Marisa's lips with her own, melting into the soft, pink ridges that now parted in surprise. As soon as she had done so, Alice drew her head back in embarrassment, her voice quivering as she attempted to apologize.
"S… Sorry," she stammered. "I… I don't know what…"
Yet instead of the expected reaction of anger or surprise, Marisa, after mulling over what had just happened, simply smirked.
And before Alice knew it, Marisa had returned the favor.
In that briefest of moments, all Alice could feel was the taste of lemongrass.
To this day, she still remembers the tickling on her lips, a phantom touch that torments her senses, haunting her thoughts, pulling her attention back to that day. Their mouths may have parted, but the ghost of their warmth will forever linger.
It is why she can learn to forgive Marisa when, for instance, she wakes up to find that her favorite teacup is gone from the pantry, as is the case today.
Blood rushes to her head, and she yanks the door to her mansion open and marches through the Forest, ignoring the tall grass scraping her knees and the sparrows that screech and flee before her wrath. A shadow passes over the sun, as if the sky, too, wishes to hide from the dollmaker's anger.
Before long, an old wooden cottage looms into view. Its chimney spouts a thin stream of gray smoke, meaning that its owner must be home.
Alice wrenches the door open and barges inside. "Marisa!"
The hut's sole occupant is seated at the dining table, taking a sip of tea from a very familiar container. The golden trim lining the teacup's rim is unmistakable.
"Oh, Alice!" Marisa beams, as though oblivious to Alice's displeasure. "Morning. How've you been?"
"How do you think?" Alice storms over to the table and stares down at Marisa, who returns her gaze and continues drinking, daring Alice with her eyes to take back what is rightfully hers. "That's my teacup."
"So it is." Marisa smacks her lips. "This is very good tea. You want some?"
"Give it back." Alice folds her arms and glares at the witch, though without the height and posture to show for it, she looks more petulant than threatening, much like an angry kitten hissing at its owner, its hackles raised in a futile attempt at intimidation.
Marisa slowly puts the teacup down, keeping one finger wrapped around the handle. "Or else?"
"Or else I'll take it back. By force."
"Oh?" Marisa raises an eyebrow. "I seem to recall that you haven't beaten me once in our past ten matches. I don't think we'll be breaking that streak today."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Alice replies tersely.
For a brief, tense moment, neither of them says a word. Then, Marisa leans back into her chair and laughs.
"Okay, okay. You can have it back once I'm done with this drink." She beckons for Marisa to step closer. "Come here."
Alice hesitantly places one foot forwards.
Then, without warning, Marisa lunges for Alice, wrapping her arms around the dollmaker's petite waist. She twirls her around and plops her onto her lap. Alice, stunned by the gesture, can do nothing but sit awkwardly in silence, hands clasped together, eyes furrowed in worry.
"Wipe that frown off your face," Marisa says, resting her chin on Alice's messy hair. "We can go have some fun later. The weather is nice today."
"Okay," Alice murmurs softly.
"Here, I'll let you have some tea." Marisa lifts the teacup and taps Alice's cheek lightly with it. Alice, in her panic, fails to notice that the teacup is empty. "Open wide."
Despite her initial consternation, Alice obediently closes her eyes and looks up, leaving her mouth slightly ajar in anticipation. Yet the expected bitterness of the tea is not what meets her lips.
For a while, nothing is said. Nothing need be.
When the unseen sensation withdraws from her mouth, her eyelids creak open. As has been the case so many times in the past, Marisa is staring down at her, the unchanging look of amusement on her face there to greet the dollmaker once again. The witch licks her lips and lets out a satisfied sigh, as if she has just finished feasting on a succulent meal.
"How was the tea?" she asks, a hint of cheekiness evident in her tone.
Alice looks down, unsure of what to say. Marisa's hands reach around and rest on Alice's stomach.
"Feel free to come over any time," Marisa purrs. "As long as you don't mind me using your teacup from time to time." She smiles triumphantly as she notices Alice's ears turning a fresh shade of vermillion. Alice may be unforthcoming with her emotions, but she is also unfailingly honest. She invariably succumbs to the whims of the person she loves, no matter how unreasonable they are.
Marisa knows it, and she cannot help but use that knowledge to her advantage. Alice knows it too, yet she cannot help but acquiesce.
At last, the dollmaker speaks.
"…Fine," comes the barely audible reply.