The Fifth Doll(15)

Matrona angled the mirror to see the faint line of a bruise on her left cheek where her mother had struck her. She frowned. Only noticeable if one looked for it.

As soon as she finished her grooming, Matrona stepped into the hallway. Her mother ushered her into the front room.

The air stretching between the log walls was warmed from the brick oven, and her father, Feodor, and Feodor’s father, Oleg, sat on the nicest rag rug the family owned. It measured about nine feet in diameter and was woven with pinks, blues, reds, and yellows. The men had propped themselves up on pillows and were sharing a small pitcher of mint kvass.

Feodor noticed Matrona and offered one of his tight-lipped smiles. It startled her at first but, finding her senses, she offered a small smile in return. Perhaps this talk—these negotiations—had gone well.

Matrona couldn’t help but wonder if the Popov men drank kvass after a good bargain on cattle.

Her father glanced up and grinned. “Ah, Matrona, there you are.” He set his mug down, stood, and smoothed his beard. “She works so hard to see to the needs of her family and the village. And not a spot on her. Graceful hands make graceful work.”

Neither Matrona nor her mother corrected him.

Feodor stood, too, and stooped to help up his father. Oleg Popov did not set down his kvass, and a few drops splashed onto the rug.

“I see that.” The bottom of Oleg’s thin white beard brushed the rim of his cup. “A girl trying very hard to become a woman, indeed.”

Trying to become a woman? Matrona thought, raising an eyebrow. She looked at her father, who did not return her gaze. Had that been part of the discussion? Playing off her now-public faults as the whims of a child? A child who could simply be righted by marriage?

She glanced to Feodor, who folded his arms across his chest and nodded in agreement with her father. Matrona took a deep breath. No, this is good. If my parents can salvage my reputation and solidify this engagement, we’ll all be the better for it. It was a more decent excuse than anything Matrona could have come up with.

Oleg downed the rest of his drink and handed the mug to Feodor before striking his fist against his chest in a show of honor and offering the same hand to Matrona’s father. “Let’s keep out of sight for a bit before moving forward with the planning. She is easy on the eyes, once you look long enough.”

He smiled at Matrona. Matrona wasn’t sure if she offered one back.

Feodor gathered the mugs from the rug and crossed the room, offering them to Matrona’s mother, who beamed happily at him before running the dishes to the kitchen. To Matrona, he held out his hand. Though still unsure of the situation, she placed her fingers in his.

“I’m glad to see this sorted out,” he said, though surely he knew Matrona had no idea what had been discussed in her absence. She swallowed the questions spinning in her brain, letting them die in her stomach. If the marriage was on, then all was as it should be, and she could relax. Feodor bent over her hand, but Matrona felt only the puff of warm breath before he stood back up and returned to his father, whom he escorted to the door.

She rubbed the back of her hand as the Popovs left. Why had he pantomimed kissing it without completing the act? She smelled her hands but detected no sourness from unscrubbed milk. If he had truly forgiven her, wouldn’t he have pressed his full lips to her flesh?

Matrona found herself wishing that Feodor would kiss her. Truly kiss her. Not here, in front of their parents, but somewhere. She wished that he would meet her on the path behind his butcher shop or leave her a letter requesting a rendezvous in the wood. She tried to imagine it: standing in the shadows of an oak grove under a purple sky, crickets singing in the evening’s warmth, and Feodor’s arms encircling her. Perhaps he would whisper something against her ear, something meant only for her, something that revealed a hidden aspect to his character. Then he would kiss her, and Matrona would feel new possibility bloom within herself. Feel like the wood had opened a little wider to make a special place just for her—a place situated in the crooks of Feodor’s arms.

The door shut, and Matrona blinked the vision away. There was still time. Time to be held, to be kissed, to be loved. She and Feodor had their whole lives ahead of them. Years to grow into love. And surely a husband would be as eager to grow as his wife, yes?

Years? You have two days, she realized. Two days until Slava would make her open the second doll. What if Feodor didn’t stay after the next round of revelations?

But what more could the village possibly learn about her?

Her mother returned from the kitchen. “Now, Matrona—”

“Do we need bread for dinner?” Matrona asked, chancing the interruption. “I can start the bread and wash the cups.”

Her mother seemed pleased, which trickled relief like cool water over Matrona’s skin. “Yes, that will do nicely.”

Matrona offered a minute curtsy before heading into the kitchen, her thoughts full of twilit woods and painted dolls.



Matrona wondered if she would see Slava Barinov before his three-day deadline, but the tradesman did not come to pick up his share of milk. He seldom did. Perhaps cheese and butter weren’t kind to his tongue, or his gut.

By the time the third day arrived, Matrona’s public humiliation had somewhat abated; the older a rumor grew, the less excitement it elicited from wagging tongues. She had taken time to mull over Slava’s words, tone, and demeanor in the doll room, and it left her with a sour stomach. The way his aging forehead wrinkled when he told her a must. The way he left her no choice in the matter. The way he held her father’s doll in his hands—her father, who had always been kinder than her mother, and whose heart hadn’t been so damaged after the loss of Esfir.