Читать книгу Direville - Lina Dee - Страница 3

She slowly stretched out her hand, the swaying palm opening like a fan, starting with the pointing finger.

The fingers, long and well-groomed, with nails of a scarlet shade that was a perfect match to that of her lipstick, tickled the air, recoiling as the forearm pulled the palm back, and froze in an indefinite gesture.

The Doll – who was in perfect control over her independent hand – had an incredible fancy for Hollywood chic that she proudly paraded, with her elegant silver dress reaching the floor, and the gorgeous waves of crispy locks falling over her shoulders. Her arched eyebrows perfectly matched the curve of the upper lip, and immaculate eye-liner, interplaying with the thick eyelashes, made her gaze magnetic.

The girl looked like a porcelain figurine on top of a music box as she stood by the window in the same position for hours on end, waiting for something – or someone – perhaps, her Puppet Master, while life pulled at her threads.

At such times, she was very quiet. Her head slightly bent to the side, she listened to the ticking of the clock as she watched its gilded arrows move. She considered this an activity that had a sacred meaning – but what that meaning was exactly, she hadn’t been able to figure out for years. Her milk – white skin, free of wrinkles or bruises, was immaculate.

Approaching her dressing table, she would meet her own reflection in the mirror as if it were someone else – with arrogance and pride. Her manner never changed, as if she was aware of something no one else had any knowledge about…

Someone knocked on the door. The Hollywood Doll turned her head and slowly stretched out her hand, letting the swaying palm open like a fan, starting with the pointing finger, and reached to open the door… But then, stopped, uncertain…