Professor M. rests the back of his shoulders against a door, pushes with his hips and turns cautiously. An ornate pewter tray holds steady a glass of champagne aside the platter of boar's head pate.

"Darn," he mutters, easing onto the musty loveseat that had been his great-grandmother's, had cushioned unwelcome Yankees during The War. "Fred got it."

Carla, still standing, has tilted from the waist slightly. Fluid that drained to Joan’s purple velveteen gown with its stiff choke of satin brocade now drips to a pool clotted by Ted's left boot.

Professor M. feels disgusted and heartsick for the sake of his mother who would be upset at carnage to dolls of her late life.

"Sheila!" the professor demands. "Did you do this?"

A serpent he’s painted to wrap tail to toe for her glows silver in failing dusk.

Bernard is most coy now. His cheerfully evil grin pervades the throng of weaker forms.

"Bernie, you're an ugly cad," the professor taunts.

Not a blond hair twitches. His trim body, the cleanly pressed navy suit, perfect fingers clutching a leather briefcase, stolidly hold against nightly abuse.

"Nobody gets up like that," he rails. "It never looked good, Terry, even when it was in style." In derision he spits at the floor. "That sticky hair plastered to your head. How ridiculous you are!"

Terrence gazes back.

"No man has ever been interested in a woman who'd dress like that," he sputters at Elsie. "No fire ever raged in that seersucker and linen." The professor points to a hidden cleft between her legs and leers. "Untouched and unwanted." He laughs jeeringly, reaches for a slice of pate.

Will she? He watches from the corner of his eye, thinks he’s caught a flicker but, no, Elsa's glazed.

Professor M. leans and relaxes into faded pillows. They won't give in tonight. How many aged beauties are left? Counting, he finds only five. The room his father loved has become a massacre, a mystery of blood and cold. Antique costumes stained in abstract crimson signs. Silent faces uncaring and unpained.

Lifting the glass of champagne to whetted lips he wonders who's next. From his hand a pate knife twirls lazily. The professor stretches to rest one elbow on a thigh.

Harry’s eyes narrow.

"Aha," Professor M. reflects.