The Fifth Doll(22)
Despite the lightness of her heart, her hands trembled as she milked the first cow.
She stared into the pail, watching shots of milk splatter against its base and sides, puddling where she directed it, slowly taking the shape of the bucket. Unable to form itself. Unable to escape.
The third day. Slava would be expecting her.
She squeezed the teats harder, and the cow turned her head to eye her with one heavily lashed brown orb. Matrona rested her head against the coarse fur as her hands moved up and down in their familiar rhythm, building on callouses she’d developed as a child. Matrona breathed in the crispness of the morning and the scent of the pasture that clung to the cow’s hide. Her mind had been quiet since waking, its detrimental thoughts unheard as she washed and dressed and milked. Still, she couldn’t go back to Slava’s abode. Wouldn’t.
Slava cared deeply about the dolls, didn’t he? That was why he made them, why he kept them, and why, for some reason, he wanted Matrona to watch over them in his stead. Surely he wouldn’t destroy the dolls for the sake of bending her to his will. He might twist a few in anger, but eventually he would give up, wouldn’t he?
Matrona leaned back, listening to the rhythm of falling milk. “I don’t know what he’ll do,” she whispered, and the cow turned back to her feed.
She milked in contemplation until the right side of the cow went dry, then moved her pail to the left. Not for the first time, Matrona tried to imagine her lost sister working beside her. She’d be about Jaska’s age. Matrona wondered if Esfir would have the same black hair Matrona did, or if it would be lighter, more like her father’s. A strong jaw or a slim one. Surely she’d wear the strong Vitsin brow.
What would it have been like to have Esfir’s companionship throughout childhood and adolescence? To have someone else draw her parents’ attention, especially her mother’s? Matrona couldn’t help but wonder if these recent events would have happened had Esfir not mysteriously vanished from her cradle.
The milk stopped, and Matrona leaned back against a sore spine. If putting distance between herself and the tradesman didn’t resolve the situation, then perhaps Feodor could intervene. The Popov family was well respected and held sway over many in the village. Of course, she would need to tell Feodor about the dolls, and she wasn’t sure he’d believe her.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the full pail and carried it to a clean, empty barrel. She glanced back at the barn’s open doors, picturing Jaska between them, remembering the way he’d stood before her as she held the churn in her hands. His proffered elbow and his soft words, so different from . . .
She blinked hard. Feodor. Jaska didn’t matter. She’d humiliated herself enough for one lifetime, hadn’t she?
Her father came out to tend the small herd, pausing for a moment to watch her work, then nodding his approval when she met his eyes. The subtle gesture felt like warm tea on a tight stomach after two days under the thumb of that unyielding darkness. Hopefully he would still look at her kindly when she returned from her journey. She would have to come up with a story to explain her absence. Yet it could be a long while before she returned home—only time would tell.
When her father left, Matrona quickly distributed milk and cream and hurried to her room to gather her things. Her mother had taken to the laundry, and so Matrona helped herself to the kitchen stores, choosing that which would last the longest in her pack, enough for a few days. She pulled on her sturdiest shoes and vacated through the pasture, trying to keep her walk casual, though her muscles itched to run.
She followed the path toward the butchery, where it would turn south toward the wood. The grasses made Slava’s wagon tracks hard to find, but she thought she saw their direction and traced them into the wood, to a wide place between the trees. Uneven patches of wild grass gave way to moss, clover, and old, trampled foliage. She filled herself with several deep breaths to calm her nerves as she moved farther and farther from the village. Usually only the hunters delved into the wood, but Matrona had played among the roots and trunks as a child. It was not long, however, before she surpassed the distance she’d dared to travel in her youth.
Oddly, the aspens grew tightly together, forcing her to choose a path around them. She hesitated a brief moment, for no wagon would be able to pass between them, and there was no other route the tradesman could have taken. Had she guessed his entry point wrong? She worried her lip as she picked her way through sun and shadow, pack bouncing against her back. She thought of the glares of the village women, her mother’s open palm against her cheek, and the dark swirl of her own self-loathing. The memories propelled her forward.
After another mile, the trunks loosened, and Matrona paused by a crooked hornbeam to catch her breath, resting her hands on her knees.
The wood was absent of the sound of people; only the soft noises of busy insects and hungry birds greeted her. There was nothing to fear here, especially while sunlight still infiltrated the canopy formed by the trees. The earth beneath her feet was relatively flat, veined with brooks and goatsbeard. Were she to venture deep enough into the wood, she’d likely see a stray sika deer or a wild ass, perhaps even a pig, but nothing that would harm her. Still, were the trees to break for a road, she would thank every saint she could name.
So she walked, savoring the absence of people, focusing on the sounds of life around her—songbirds and grouse, shrews and red squirrels. She walked with her arms folded at first, but the exercise loosed them, and soon Matrona found herself picking her way over fallen branches and large stones, careful with her balance. She paused once more to gain her bearings—and was surprised to see that she was just outside a familiar glade with foot-crushed grass and a tall, triangular boulder in its center.