Read Online Wax by Gina Damico - Free Book Online Page B

disregards signs and barges into places where she’s not supposed to be, that means that what you’ve really come for is the
real
tour.”
    Poppy made a muddled face. Was she scolding her? Or just being blunt?
    â€œBecause you are nosy,” the woman added.
    Blunt, then.
    The woman extended her hand. Here, at last, was proof of her oldness​—​knobby knuckles, skin paper-thin and liver-spotted. Poppy felt like she was shaking hands with a tree branch.
    â€œI am Madame Grosholtz.”
    â€œOh.
Oh.
” Poppy’s eyes went wide. “Sorry I called your factory evil.”
    Madame Grosholtz let out a laugh. It sounded like a tangled wind chime. “It is nothing to me, my doll! Just a name. As long as I do what they tell me to do down there,” she said glibly, with a dismissive hand wave toward the floor, “they let me dabble in all the real dabblings up here.”
    â€œActually,” said Poppy, “I’m here to find out if you . . .”
    But she trailed off, unable to work up a fit of righteous indignation. How could she accuse the woman now? Besides, maybe she wasn’t the one who had sculpted the figure in the gazebo; if she had, wouldn’t she have recognized Poppy the moment she entered?
    â€œDo you want to see?” Madame Grosholtz asked, nodding and advancing upon her once again. “My dabblings?”
    Poppy gathered from her manic, unblinking stare that the only answer she’d be allowed to give was, “Uh, sure.”
    Delighted, Madame Grosholtz clapped her hands twice and scampered off. A second later the room lit up, and Poppy realized how wrong she’d been about the figures. There weren’t just a few.
    There were dozens.
    Every size, shape, ethnicity. Fat men and skinny men, tall women and short women, happy and sad, from the palest complexion to the darkest shade. The whole of human history on parade: cavemen, bushmen, Vikings, Egyptian Pharaohs, Amazon women, Roman emperors, Mongol invaders, Aztec warriors, European monarchs, founding fathers, rows and rows of figures that Poppy never would have imagined could be rendered at such a level of artistry and skill.
    And though the figures were impeccably made, their features weren’t perfect; indeed, it was the astoundingly human
im
perfections that stole Poppy’s breath away. A woman’s eyes were spaced a shade too far apart; a man’s ears stuck out at odd angles. Freckles and birthmarks were in ample supply. One had a large nose that bore a curiously strong resemblance to Madame Grosholtz’s.
    Just when Poppy thought herself incapable of tearing her gaze away from one figure, another would grab it and not let go, gluing her to every minuscule detail. How dynamically their eyes sparkled. How subtly their expressions sat. How natural their poses were, how
lifelike.
Incredibly, unbelievably real.
    As if they’re embalmed,
Poppy thought with a surge of dread.
    â€œIt is wax,” Madame Grosholtz said reassuringly, as if she’d anticipated the nasty conclusion to which Poppy’s mind had started to slip. “Just wax.”
    So, not corpses, then?
Poppy made a snorting noise at the thought, then, embarrassed, looked down at her feet, at the shavings of what she’d thought was skin.
    Not skin. Wax.
    She looked back up at Madame Grosholtz. “They’re amazing,” she said, the word maddeningly inadequate for something so . . . well, amazing. “You made all of these yourself?”
    Madame Grosholtz fixed a coy, not-so-humble look on her face. “Yes. I made them.”
    â€œAre they for the diorama?”
    â€œOh, heavens, no, not for the store. I made those dismal farmers years ago, as a favor, and after that​—​no more! That place is reserved for soulless blobs of wax, good only for providing light and scents and a false sense of warmth. The empty kind. Here, we make the full kind.