Wretched wardrobes, derived from walnut and beech--no children disappearing into them, not today, but in ten years' time, twelve, oh, the solidification of the quantum theory of developmental archaic chaos! The doors bore strange motifs, red lacquer lotus blossoms, ebony roots in a swirling tangle, a giveaway to the disgraced mathematician. We set the dolls inside, cornhusk and acorn and slightly damp dog tongue. Said the words. Lit the flame. And stepped back, shutting the doors to all three.
The open house would begin in a moment. A steal, this place, at one-forty. And fully furnished, of course.