That night, in her trailer beneath a ceiling of pinned topographic maps, Dakota set Vira on the shelf. The wind howled. And Vira spoke.
“Don’t be afraid, stone girl. I’ve been underground for eighty years. A miner’s daughter buried me when the vein ran dry. He thought I was cursed. He was half right.”
“You found me.”
Vira was exquisite in a ruined way. Porcelain face, hand-painted lips curled in a knowing smile. One glass eye was missing, the other a startling, deep gold—like a hawk’s. Her silk dress had once been white, but age had turned it the color of prairie wheat at dusk. Tiny leather boots, real leather, stitched with thread that glinted like fools’ gold.
Not aloud. In Dakota’s head. A dry, rustling whisper, like corn husks in autumn. vira gold dakota doll
“What do you want, Vira?”
“You’re gold-bearing,” Dakota murmured, her geologist’s brain overriding her fear. That night, in her trailer beneath a ceiling
So Dakota did.