Constance Crabapple sat in the window of the black dollhouse and waited to be made whole again. She was a china doll dressed all in black. A crack split her face from brow to chin. A girl had held her once, then dropped her, then walked out into the world without looking back. Constance kept the loose shards in a dish beside her. She meant to find the girl, gather every missing piece, and look like herself again. But she could not search from a shelf. She needed the girl's location, and that was the one thing she did not have. She had traded for it. Wendy Wormapple, a two-headed doll in a green dress, had agreed to find the girl who breaks dolls. In exchange, Constance had promised the preserving potion. That was days ago. Wendy had not come back. Constance watched the little door and counted the hours by the light that crossed the floor. Then the door opened. Wendy stepped in. One head was shiny and pretty. The other was cracked and leaking dust down the green collar. The pretty head was crying. The cracked head stared straight ahead. "Did you find her?" Constance asked. "Found her," the cracked head said. Constance stood. "Where?" Wendy did not answer at once. The two heads looked at each other, the way they always did before a tie. "She's in the orchards," the cracked head said. "Deep. Past the twisted trees." "Then tell me the way." "Can't," the pretty head said, wet. "Won't." Constance did not understand. "We had a trade." "She has your pieces," the cracked head said. "All of them. She keeps them in a box. She breaks dolls to take their faces." The head tipped toward Constance. "She broke you on purpose. She was collecting." The pretty head sobbed once. "She'll break us too. We went close. We saw." Constance looked at the dish of shards beside the window. Her own face, waiting in pieces. She had thought the girl careless. Not hungry. "Give me the way," Constance said again. Wendy's two heads turned to each other. A long pause. Then they nodded, both at once, the same choice for the first time. "Won't take you there," the cracked head said. "But we'll trade the road." The pretty head wiped its cheek. "For the potion. Now." Constance crossed to the shelf and lifted the porcelain vial. It was smooth and cold, painted with gold charms. It was the only thing that could stop Wendy's cracked head from crumbling to dust. She had held it back as her last chip. Now she set it in Wendy's gloved hands. Wendy pressed the vial to the cracked head and spoke the way through the orchards, step by step. Constance listened and did not forget a word. When Wendy left, Constance gathered her shards into a black cloth. She had the road now. She also had a girl who broke dolls for sport, waiting at the end of it.