The worst thing was the piercing sting. Her eyelids were pricked by a thousand tiny needles at once, and then she felt a tight, burning pull. Beaver's hands clawed at the air in vain as she thrashed against the icy, powerful hands holding her down. Her already deteriorating vision was blurred as hot, heavy tears poured down her face.

"There, there, my sweet Beaver," a voice that used to sound so cozy and inviting cooed. It was sickly sweet. Now it made her spine tingle with cold fear. "Almost finished. "Just a little... final touch."

Another burning thread pulled taut, another excruciating prick. Darkness. Complete and utter darkness.

Great heaving gulps of air caught in Beaver's throat as she sobbed. A constant, terrifying reminder of what had just transpired was the rough, scratchy feel of the freshly sewn buttons against her skin. Anxiety tore at her insides. She needed to get out. She needed to return home, to her real parents, to Kit and Henry.

She stumbled blindly forward, slamming into strange furniture with her outstretched hands. It was not her home. This other house, which had initially appeared to be so ideal, was now a terrifying trap. She thought back to the day she discovered the doll—a flawless miniature version of herself with gleaming button eyes. Through a tiny, hidden doorway behind the bookcase, it had brought her here. The other mother had been incredibly considerate and kind, preparing all of her favorite meals and paying close attention to everything she had to say. However, it was all a cruel trick and a lie.

Her fingers brushed cold, rough stone as she groped back towards where she believed the doorway to be. The bookcase's smooth wood, no. She rubbed her hands over the surface, bewildered. Bricks. stout, uncompromising bricks. The passage had vanished. sealed tightly.

A new wave of fear swept over her, so strong it nearly brought her knees to the ground. She found herself confined. Really stuck.

"Hello?" She spoke in a tremulous whisper that was hardly heard over the deafening silence. "Is anyone there?"

Silence. The only sound in the room was her own labored breathing.

"Dad? Mom?" Her voice rose in desperation as she screamed. "Kit?"

Nothing has changed. Only the oppressive, oppressive quiet of the other house.

Then there was a new sound. From somewhere behind her, she heard slow, deliberate footsteps. Beaver recoiled as her heart pounded against her chest.

"Beaver, are you looking for something?" Nearer now, the sweet voice purred. Too near.

"Stay away from me!" Blindly backing away until she struck a wall, Beaver choked out.

The other mother's voice became sharp and almost brittle as she said, "But I just want to love you, my dear. As long as I live."

Despite the fact that she was unable to see anything, Beaver squeezed her eyes shut. "You are not my mom!"

"Oh, but I am," the other mother adamantly said, her voice full of bittersweetness. "I am all that you have ever desired."

"No, you are not!" Beaver let out a shriek, her eyes welling up with tears once more. "You are a monster, you are!"

"A monster?" The voice made a dry, disagreeable laugh. "Do not act foolish, Beaver. All I want is your love. and your lovely little soul."

Beaver felt her breath catch in her throat. Spirit. The other mother desired that. to steal her soul.

"Franklin!" she screamed, her voice breaking in terror. "Goose! Bear! Please help me! Oh, please! I need help, someone please!"

Her screams went unheard in the silence. With the thing that had buttons sewn into her eyes and wore the face of her other mother, she was stranded in the dark by herself. A tiny spark of Beaver's typical stubbornness flickered within her, but despair threatened to overwhelm her. She was not going to give up. She needed to escape. She was forced to do so. For her biological family... Kit... She just had to.

The humming of the Beldam ceased suddenly. Like the moments before a thunderstorm, the air crackled with a sudden, sharp tension.

"Beaver?" Just moments before, her voice had been so sweet and sugary, but now it had a dangerous edge. "Where do you think you are going?"

Beaver did not respond. With her hands outstretched, she continued to move, running into odd, unfamiliar furniture. The sound of a tall, spindly lamp toppling over reverberated loudly in the stifling silence.

"I said, where are you going?" The Beldam repeated, her voice becoming sharper and colder. The soft, slithering sound that raised the hairs on the back of Beaver's neck was rustling behind her.

Abruptly, a surprisingly cold and powerful hand clamped down on her arm. Beaver tried to break free, but the hold was so firm that he gasped.

Her voice was shaking as she screamed, "Let go of me!"

"You ungrateful little thing!" the Beldam hissed, her breath sour and hot against Beaver's ear. "I fulfilled all of your desires! An ideal family, an ideal home! And this is your way of paying me back?"

Beaver could sense a tangible wave of rage emanating from the Beldam. Beaver let out a painful cry as the hand on her arm tightened.

"It is not perfect!" Beaver broke down in tears. "It's… it's wrong! You are mistaken."

"Wrong?" the Beldam sneered, her tone full of incredulity. "Let me prove you wrong!"

Beaver stumbled, her feet tangled in the thick, velvety carpet as the hold on her arm pulled her back. Her already aching head was startled by the impact as she fell to the ground with a thud.

"You will stay here, Beaver," the Beldam said in a threatening, low voice. "You will come to value what I have given you." You will learn to love me… as your real mother."

In an effort to get away from the frightful figure towering over her, Beaver scurried backward. She could hear the Beldam approaching, her footsteps on the carpet soft but purposeful.

"No!" Beaver yelled in spite of her fear, her voice full of defiance. "You are not my mom! You are nothing more than a monster."

The Beldam hissed, a sharp, irate sound akin to a cat's. Beaver sensed a chill shadow descending upon her as she drew closer. She closed her eyes tightly, the terror ensnaring her heart more intense than the dull throb of the buttons. She needed to have courage. She needed to continue to fight. Franklin, Goose, Bear… they wouldn't give up on her. She also could not give up on herself.

Beaver usually barely noticed the familiar tune humming from Mr. Owl's classroom fluorescent lights. But today she had two things on her mind. She was half-focused on Mr. Owl's explanation of the Canadian goose's migratory patterns (which she already knew, of course—"Everybody knows that!"), and the other half was totally engrossed in the tiny, button-eyed doll that was sitting on her desk.

Really, it was a strange thing. Yesterday afternoon, she discovered it tucked away in a clump of reeds close to their dam house. It resembled her at first glance, with the same tidy brown "braids" and a slightly determined expression on its small, stitched mouth. But instead of her usual bright, curious eyes, this doll had two shiny, black buttons sewn firmly in place. They looked at it strangely, almost unnervingly, as if it were looking through you without seeing you.

Beaver was unable to completely get rid of the sensation that something was awry. But there was also a peculiar fascination. It was a well-made doll, with surprisingly detailed tiny hands and neatly stitched little paws. In fact, she had previously chewed absently on one of its fabric fingers—a habit she typically saved for her pencils.

Badger, who was sitting next to her, carefully shifted her crutches so she could lean in closer as Mr. Owl babbled on about flight formations. "That is a really neat doll, Beaver," she said, a little breathy. "Did your mom make it?"

Beaver glanced at Badger and then down at the doll. "Oh, uh, no," she said, taking it in her hands and flipping it over. "Yesterday I actually discovered it by the dam."

Badger's brows went up a bit. "You just discovered it? By itself?"

Beaver gave a nod, accompanied by a slight shrug. "Indeed. It was simply resting beside some cattails. Strange, is not it?

With her eyes glued to the doll's button eyes, Badger concurred, "It is a little weird," "Actually, it looks a lot like you."

Beaver squinted at the doll as she held it up. Now that Badger mentioned it, the resemblance was a little stronger than she'd first thought. "Yeah, I guess it kind of does," she admitted, feeling an indistinct glimmer of something. "Same fur, anyhow."

"And the way its snout is," Badger carefully added. "It appears to be you when you are truly focused on something."

Beaver, who had a tendency to puff out her cheeks when she was trying to solve a problem, did so slightly. "What? I never gave it any thought. She rotated the doll's head, allowing the light to shine on the buttons. They gleamed in an odd way.

Badger said, "Those eyes are something else," with a faint shudder in her voice. "They are really... black."

"Yeah," Beaver said softly, a hint of discomfort finally penetrating her normally assured demeanor. "Do not they just kind of stare at you?" Suddenly wanting to avoid staring at those button eyes, she tucked the doll under her arm.

Mr. Owl brought the class's focus back to the front with a loud clearing of his throat. "Now, as I mentioned earlier, geese have an amazing ability to navigate."

Beaver made an effort to concentrate on Mr. Owl once more, but her thoughts kept returning to the doll that was safely nestled at her side. From where had it originated? Why did it resemble her somewhat? And those eyes—those odd, button-shaped black eyes. It was intriguing, but there was also a hint of something off about it.

She looked at Badger, who was now taking notes with diligence. Beaver had heard a sliver of the same uneasiness Beaver was beginning to feel in Badger's voice, despite the fact that she had praised the doll.

Beaver could not get rid of the impression that discovering this doll was not a chance occurrence as the lesson went on. It seemed like the start of something—something odd. A much bigger part of Beaver, the part that loved solving puzzles and learning things, was unquestionably curious, despite the fact that a tiny part of her was a little anxious. What was the backstory on this doll with button eyes? And why did it feel as though it had located her in some way?

Finally, Mr. Owl's lesson came to an end when the bell shrieked. As everyone began packing up, the room was filled with the sound of scraping chairs and a collective shuffle of papers. As she collected her own belongings, Beaver tightened his grip on the button-eyed doll.

"Hi, Beaver!" The classroom echoed a bit too loudly with Bear's booming voice. With a broad, amiable smile, he limped over to her desk. Bear was always happy, but even when there were no snacks nearby, his eyes frequently appeared to be searching for them. But today he could not take his eyes off the doll that was peeking out from under her arm.

With a curious tilt of his head, he inquired, "Whatcha got there?"

In an attempt to sound informal, Beaver said, "Just a doll I found," The last thing she wanted was for Bear to touch it. Even though she had discovered it just yesterday, there was something about it that felt... personal.

Bear's eyes widened. "Whoa! Cool! Can I see?" His fingers twitched in anticipation as he extended a plump hand.

Beaver drew the doll back out of instinct. "Uh, sure," she said a bit too hastily while keeping it out of his grasp. "But use it with caution, okay?"

Bear's smile got even bigger. "No issue! I am very cautious. Before Beaver could fully comprehend what was happening, he reached again and gently (for Bear, anyway) removed the doll from her grasp.

"Hey!" Beaver objected and grabbed for it.

Bear's brow was furrowed in concentration as he held the doll up, moving it around. "Wow," he uttered. "It has eyes with buttons! That is really cool." He jabbed his finger at one of the gleaming black buttons.

Beaver felt an odd sensation in his stomach. It was a profound uneasiness rather than a direct resentment at Bear for taking it. "Yeah, well, be careful with them," she said again, the edge in her voice slightly sharper. "They appear as though they might come off."

Bear was so focused that he did not seem to hear her. He was looking at the doll's tiny fur now. "And it is really thorough! Beaver, were these made by you?

"No!" she uttered, a bit frustrated. "I found it, I told you!"

"Found it?" Bear's eyes widened once more as he looked up. "Really? Where?"

Beaver muttered, "By the dam," still attempting to retrieve the doll. "Look, Bear, can you give it back to me now?"

The bear held the doll close to his chest. "Just a short while? It is truly awesome. I have never before seen a doll with button eyes." His best puppy-dog eyes, which he typically used to persuade Mrs. Muskrat to give him extra cookies, were fixed on her.

Beaver was hesitant. Bear's puppy-dog eyes were usually too much for her to handle, but this time was different. This doll just did not feel right in his grasp. With a firm "No, Bear," she reached for it once more. "Now I want it back."

Bear let out a loud sigh, a sound he had mastered from years of not receiving second helpings. "Come on, Beaver, please! Only for the remainder of the homeward walk? I swear I will return it at that time."

Beaver persisted in saying, "No, Bear," and eventually succeeded in pulling one of the doll's arms. "Give it back."

Bear eventually gave in after noticing Beaver's resolute expression and likely noticing the unusual gravity in her voice. With a sigh, he returned the doll to her. "All right, all right. Sheesh. What's the big deal?"

A wave of relief swept over Beaver as she gripped the doll. She said, "It is just… it is mine," which at the time felt right even though it was not totally accurate. "And I do not want it to break or get lost."

Bear shrugged, returning to his typical upbeat demeanor. "All right, all right. No biggie." He clapped her on the shoulder. "Race you to the door!" Then, in his haste to be the first person out of the classroom, he limped away, having already forgotten his earlier fascination with the button-eyed doll.

After watching him leave, Beaver turned to face the doll she was holding. It appeared to gaze blankly into the future with its button eyes. She kept thinking that this odd little doll was more significant than she realized at the time. She also had no intention of Bear "borrowing" it again.

With a protective grip on the button-eyed doll, Beaver ran to catch up to Badger, who was using her crutches to carefully navigate the hallway.

As she left, she once again encountered Badger.

"Hey Badger!" Beaver yelled.

Badger smiled softly as she turned. "Hi, Beaver. Is everything alright? Back there with Bear and the doll, you appeared a little... intense."

Beaver let out a sigh. Indeed, Bear had to try to accept it. It is just I do not know. It is strange to let other people handle it. A frown creased her brow as she looked down at the doll. "I know it is dumb, but..."

Badger gave a sympathetic nod. "Oh, I understand. Even though you have just discovered something, there are moments when it feels like it is yours."

As they reached the main entrance of the dam, Mr. Beaver's voice boomed across the hallway. "Beaver! There you are! You must come down to the workhouse immediately.

Beaver let out an inward groan. Her father was a force of nature, with his glasses balanced precariously on his muzzle and his constant need for additional hands. "Coming, Papa!" she called back, bidding Badger farewell.

She discovered her father standing near the door with his arms folded and a mildly irritated expression on his face. "About time! I need you to help me sort through some lumber. We've got that big order for Mrs. Goose's new bookshelves, and it's not going to sort itself!"

Beaver sighed again, tucking the button-eyed doll into the pocket of her shelf. "Okay, Papa. Let's go."

The smell of sawdust and the steady clang of hammers made the workhouse a familiar place. Beaver usually had no problem assisting her father. She had a talent for locating the appropriate tools and was surprisingly accurate with measurements. But today, her mind was still occupied by the strange doll in her house.

As they started stacking planks of wood, Mr. Beaver kept up his usual stream of instructions. "Alright, Beaver, these longer ones go over here. And make sure they're straight! A crooked board is no good to anyone! Especially not Mrs. Goose. She's got an eye for detail, that one." He squinted at a piece of wood after adjusting his glasses. "Will you now give me that chisel? The one the blue handle is on. No, Beaver, the blue handle! Sincerely, there are moments when I believe you are completely unfocused.

"Papa, I am paying attention!" Beaver said, sounding somewhat defensive. She gave him the appropriate chisel.

"Good, good," complained Mr. Beaver, who was already preoccupied with his task. "Now, after we finish this, I need you to help me sand down those table legs. And then, perhaps you could organize the nails? You see, they are all messed up, and a carpenter needs neat nails! Beaver, efficiency, efficiency! That's the key to a good work ethic!"

Beaver tried to follow his quick-fire instructions while nodding. Occasionally, however, her hand would stray to the shelves, her fingers grazing the doll's cool, smooth surface.

"Papa?" After a brief pause, Beaver asked hesitantly.

"Yes, Beaver?" Mr. Beaver used the back of his paw to wipe a drop of perspiration from his forehead.

"Have you ever… found anything strange around the dam? Like, a doll or something?"

Mr. Beaver's brow furrowed under his glasses as he scowled. "A doll? No, I am unable to claim to have. Occasionally, we might come across a lost boot or old fishing lures. "Why are you asking?"

Beaver tried to sound indifferent by shrugging. "Oh, I was just wondering. Yesterday, I came upon a somewhat... unusual doll.

"Unusual how?" Mr. Beaver asked, his curiosity piqued.

Beaver paused, trying to think of a way to explain it without coming across as ridiculous. "It simply possesses button eyes."

Mr. Beaver gave a blink. "Eyes like buttons? It is a little strange, then. "Where did you find it exactly?"

"By the water, close to the cattails," Beaver answered.

Mr. Beaver gave his chin a contemplative pat. "Well... That is unlike anything I have ever seen in this area. Beaver, take care of that. You can never tell where something has been.

Beaver said, "I will, Papa," with a hint of disdain. She seemed to find it more odd than he did.

The workhouse's routine tasks occupied the remainder of the afternoon. Beaver's thoughts kept returning to the button-eyed doll in her pocket while she assisted her dad, her hands occupied with wood and tools. What was the history of it?