Almost everything was fluttering and shuffling: the china was indeed waking from whatever slumber it enjoyed; dishes were very carefully shuddering themselves to life; teacups were bouncing and trying to get out of their glass cabinet prison. The stove, which seemed so cheerful and warm and fiery at the end of the room, now began to yawn and stretch its great black iron arms and exhaust pipe. Belle drew into herself a little, alarmed. Stories of witches with their fires and stoves and terrible, terrible endings played through her head. Baba Yaga, Hansel and Gretel…
I can definitely imagine this scene
