Tomas climbed the table skirt and approached the (on his scale) huge, glass doors. The human creatures pressed their foreheads against the inside of the barrier straining to see this unexpected visitor. But the brass framed doors were well made. They locked tight, with no way to slip in. He stepped back, looked up shook his head and gestured. The man, up above, peered down from the carefully fashioned, miniature living room and shook his head too. Odd that we use the same signals - Tomas thought.... No one expects finding like-minded folk in such exotic places. The children and some of the others looked down too. They all seemed so sad.
Our misplaced 'vampire' (by now quite hungry) made ready to climb back down. He imagined the people 'upstairs' to be specially favored 'food' humans from the kitchen and the cellar. What could he do for them? But just as he was about to slip over the edge, he heard a footfall in the hallway... a gigantic footfall. Something 'canine' this way comes. He jumped up and ran 'round to the front of the dollhouse, hiding himself in some green, more or less, pipe cleaner bushes.
It walked in and closed the door. Such a soft, metallic click. Then it sat down on a satin chair and looked in the mirror.... a dressing table for dog-folk women... Tomas could see this, for he crept out and peeked 'round a corner. A little girl from the 'family' inside waved to him through a basement window. He ignored her, because what sat before him was far more compelling.
A dog-woman, in a long, silk, dressing gown, she was, quietly studying her delicate Afghan face in the carefully silvered glass. She sat there and didn't move. Then she picked up an engraved hairbrush and began to pull it through her long, wavy, blond tresses. After perhaps thirty or forty strokes she put it down and sighed. Then she laughed... a small laugh. Tomas supposed it was a laugh. Dog ways were still strange to him. Her left 'hand' trembled. She held it in her lap. Then she roused herself, found something in a drawer and took it out... a small, enameled pot. She opened it, dipped in a finger and delicately began to apply some sort of gel to her eyelashes. After that came a larger, round container filled with dusting powder, lightly worked into her short, mohair-like facial coat with a stiff bristled, artist's brush. She looked at the results. Was she satisfied? Who knows? She just sat. She just looked.
Maybe thirty six heartbeats later came a slight tapping noise. The 'father' rapped against his side of the glass with a tiny walking stick. The dog-woman heard (they do have superior hearing, you know). She stared toward the scaled down residence through half closed eyes. Then she got up, went over to the dollhouse, flipped the precision crafted, tiny, brass latch and opened the doors. Everyone stepped back. This was a dance. They'd done it before. The melancholy dog-woman reached into her pocket and took out two very small parcels... carefully folded squares of stiff waxed tissue paper, such as jewelers might use to wrap individual gemstones. To the eager humans they measured three feet square, each tied up with fine, silk thread. Then the female canine thing went over to a tufted chaise lounge and laid down for a before dinner nap. Must look well for guests. Appearances are everything.
The chatelaine of the petit palace took out a pair of minute, golden scissors and opened the parcels. One held foodstuffs... tiny, smoked fish, big-eyed fry from some unknown species.... a toy sized mound of diced bean sprouts (who did the dicing, I cannot tell)... some coffee... some cocoa... a few grape slices ... a small dollop of marzipan and something else. Such was dinner. The other parcel had exquisitely fashioned examples of tiny clothing...interior wear... shirts, blouses, stockings, that sort of thing.... Could be the work of intelligent bees, as far as I know..... Well practiced hands stowed everything away... Every faucet worked (via small, daily filled, carefully concealed bottles). One even dispensed wine. You should see the almost microscopic silverware.
But she didn't close the door. Tomas never heard it click and he never heard the latch flip into place. Vampire ears he had, keen as any dog... and he knew. So he moved 'round to the place where the front of the house meets the right hand wall and peeked. The dog-woman was sleeping. Not only that, the giantess had rolled over, facing the other way. A depressed soul, she was. Lost love and all that. Thus the classic Dietrich song up above. Please listen.
So Tomas carefully tip toed 'round and stepped inside. It was quiet. The hand laid parquetry gleamed. A tiny 'tall clock' (with a dial exactly like those on Earth) softly ticked. A Queen Anne mansion in every way, though also a prison too.
He found them in the dining room, where a hear-to-fore unseen maid served dinner. The father person, without looking up, said,"We heard you come in. Please... sit down."
But Tomas froze, for the father person addressed him in English...
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