A porcelain face sits on a pedestal with clockwork showing through the places where the surface has come away, roses massed behind it, bones and skulls at the base, and an open sketchbook propped alongside showing the construction drawing it was built from.
The drawing came first. The proportions were worked out over several evenings, adjusted where they needed adjusting, measured against nothing in particular, and everything since has been a matter of getting the real one to hold still long enough to match it. She is very close now. Closer than she has ever been.
None of this has anything to do with her.