The Fifth Doll(13)

She was separating the curds from the whey when a familiar voice spoke her name, startling her from her work.

“Feodor.” She kept her focus on the curds. Rude of her, yes, but she just couldn’t—

“I’ve been speaking to your parents.” His voice sounded deeper than usual, flatter. “I must say . . . you have shocked us all.”

“I didn’t do so willingly.” She scrambled for something clever to say, but the sudden exposure had left her empty.

Feodor scoffed. “I should hope not. The entire village is whispering about you and that Maysak boy. You’ve dragged my family’s name through the mud as well.”

“Do they also talk of the dolls?”

His brow furrowed as if she’d spouted gibberish. “What dolls?”

So that secret had been preserved, no doubt by some sorcery of Slava’s. Matrona crushed the curds in her hand, took a deep breath, and let the cheesecloth fall to her worktable. Turning around, she bowed her head. “Please forgive me, and do not hold it against my parents.”

The words felt like sand in her mouth, and her blood seemed to pump the wrong direction through her veins. Her head spun, and an ache formed behind her eyes. Did he have to confront her now? Could Feodor not allot her one day to process her humiliation?

Could he not understand?

“I suppose I should not.” From the corner of her eye, she saw him fold his arms. He was silent for a long moment, then sighed and said, “I don’t know what to do with you, Matrona. Hide you and myself away until the gossipmongers find something better to talk about? I need to sort out my own . . . feelings on the matter.”

Matrona lifted her eyes to meet his, but Feodor stared at an unknown spot on the wall behind her. Feeling daring, Matrona asked, “Then you will not break the engagement?”

“I have not decided,” he answered, too quickly, as though he had been waiting for the opportunity to say it. To let her know what a disappointment she’d become to him. His gaze finally met hers. “You know I value tradition, chastity—”

“I am not unchaste.”

“—the subjection of a woman to her husband,” he added, his lip curving downward. “You are well dispositioned and know how to hold your tongue and please your family. You strive to follow the Good Book. That is what drew me to you, Matrona. To know of these”—he scowled—“fancies—”

“Matrona!” sang a new voice, Roksana’s, and the loudness of it was jarring. “Matrona, are you here? You never told me—”

Roksana appeared in the doorway to the barn and stopped short, her eyes open and round as she took in Feodor and Matrona, who undoubtedly looked a mess. “Oh, excuse me.” She offered a small curtsy. “I didn’t think—”

Feodor waved her apology away with a limp hand. “I have nothing else to say, only thoughts to think. Good day, Roksana.”

Roksana nodded, and Feodor pushed past her. Matrona picked at the cheese under her nails. She ached to tell her dear friend to leave her be, just for now. To give her time to sort through this strange mess that had been laid upon her lap. But the words wouldn’t come, and then it was too late.

“Matrona.” Roksana glanced back at Feodor before stepping into the barn, guarding her full belly with her hands. “Oh, he must be livid. What did you tell him?”

Matrona shrugged and turned back to the cheesecloth.

“I’m sure you can mend it,” Roksana added, stepping up to the worktable, her own dark braids swinging over her shoulders. “I’m in terrible trouble with Luka, I hope you know. He had no idea the granger and I used to fancy each other, though I’m not sure why he cares so much. It was before Luka and I even noticed each other.”

“Of course he does.” Matrona squeezed the cheesecloth, milky water streaming over her sore knuckles.

“But Matrona,” Roksana urged, leaning against the worktable to better see her face. “You told me you had no fancy for anyone, and that Feodor—”

“Roksana,” Matrona pleaded.

“You always were good at keeping secrets.”

Not anymore, I’m not, she thought, untwisting the cheesecloth and dumping the crushed curds into a bowl. Her eyes burned, but they stayed dry.

“His father—Feodor’s, that is—is raving mad,” Roksana continued. “He was in my papa’s shop when we found out—”

“And how did you find out?” Matrona snapped. How had any of them found out?

Roksana paused, blinking, her forehead slowly crinkling above her eyes. “I don’t know . . . Where are you going?”

Matrona was nearly to the door, wiping her hands on the dingy apron tied around her hips. She hastily loosened its strings and let it fall to the barn floor. She didn’t answer Roksana, only continued walking. Searching for some sort of respite. How she itched to go to Slava’s house, walk straight into that room of the nesting dolls, and choose one at random. Open that first layer and spill someone else’s secrets for the village hens. Surely there were darker truths than her own to occupy her neighbors.

How cruel that would be.

She pushed through the nearest gate and exited the pasture, her strides long and quick. She wound around the back of the land, but still managed to catch sight of Pavel Zotov across the way. His eyes lingered on her too long, like hot stones burning her skin. So she changed direction once more, toward the quiet homes of her neighbors. Their yards were empty, which encouraged her. This route was the way to Feodor’s butchery, but she would not go there. Her goal was simply to go away, where the ill-and well-meaning alike couldn’t find her.