The Fifth Doll(23)

She paused, glancing behind her. No, that couldn’t be right. This looked like the children’s glade, on the other side of the village. The north side, and she had walked southward. There was no way she could have circumvented the village to arrive here. Then how . . . ?

She trudged forward, through the glade—it had to be one that looked similar, for Matrona’s route had never faltered, else the direction of the sun would have warned her. The symphony of insects hushed a little, and the noises of people milling about and working pricked her ears. She held her breath as the wood opened up to the village. The north side.

She’d walked a straight line, yet somehow managed to loop around to the opposite side of the village.

Her thoughts instantly turned to Slava.

But I’m not the first to delve into these woods. The game hunters frequented these trees far more often than Matrona did. They would have noticed the strange—what to call it?—loop from one side of the village to the other. Jaska and Kostya would have noticed it. Jaska would have said something.

Unless . . .

Matrona touched her stomach, the place where the seam would have been were she one of Slava’s wooden dolls. Slava had said she would separate herself from the village. Did that mean she could see this loop when others couldn’t?

Knees buckling, Matrona dropped to the forest floor and stared up at the sun. It all connected. There was no other explanation. Which meant one thing.

Matrona would never be able to escape.





Chapter 7


Matrona would not give in to Slava’s demands. If she could not run from the village, she would hide within it.

Fatigue dug at her body as she passed through the children’s glade. She ate a bit of cheese to assuage her hunger.

Her mind reeled. What would Slava do when evening came and went and the night stretched long and she still did not approach his door? Would he come for her in her own izba? What excuses could he possibly make to her parents?

Could she claim sanctuary at the church? Yet it would only be a matter of time before her own hunger drove her out.

As Matrona passed by the candle maker’s home, something on the path froze her feet in their steps.

Slava.

He approached her family’s izba from the main path. He strode with purpose, a towel slung over his shoulder, perhaps from whatever work had been occupying him before this jaunt. Like a mouse, Matrona skittered around the corner of the candle maker’s home, her neck flushing. Her pulse beat in her ears. Slava did not look her way. She drew in a shaky breath.

The appearance of the tradesman solidified in Matrona’s mind what she had already suspected—if she would not go to him, he would come to her.

Running her hands over her braid, Matrona took in her surroundings. The Demidov izba sat a short ways from her, and Lenore Demidov squinted at her from the window. Matrona pushed off from her hiding place and bolted west, daring to cross the path behind Slava before stowing behind another izba.

Roksana. She’d go to Roksana’s. Her mother would give her an earful for missing a visit from the most important man in town, but she would rather face Toma Vitsin than Slava Barinov.

The sun beat down as she hurried, and her lungs seemed unable to pull in enough air to sustain her once the Zotov izba came into sight. She forced steadiness into her pace, again checking over her shoulder as she approached the front door. Blotting her forehead with the edge of her sleeve, she knocked and waited. Knocked again.

Licking her lips, Matrona walked around the izba to the small workshop behind it, drawn to the beating of hammer against nail. Roksana, however, was not within. Only her father-in-law, Pavel, who glanced up the same moment Matrona glanced in.

“Matrona.” He picked a nail out of a heavy leather satchel hanging from his belt. A faded depiction of a rearing stallion marked the bag’s front. He’d only just begun nailing together planks of wood, but Matrona thought he might be making a headboard. “Roksana is with the midwife today. Unless you needed something made?”

“I . . . No, Pavel. Do you know when she’ll return?”

Pavel set his hammer down on his work and pulled a measuring stick from a pocket at the back of his pants. “I’m not sure, but you’ll find her there.”

Matrona nodded her thanks and backed away from the workshop. The midwife didn’t live far from Slava’s home. She was so old that most of her patients visited her for routine checkups, instead of the other way around. That izba would offer her no sanctuary.

Matrona glanced up at the sun. Slava—and her mother—would have discovered she was missing by now. Surely the tradesman had returned home.

However, as Matrona came around the Zotov izba, she saw someone heading up the main path. The gray beard, the broad back, and the towel still slung over his shoulders instantly identified him as the tradesman.

A yelp suffocated in Matrona’s throat as she flashed back behind the izba, her blood pounding enough to make her dizzy. Their village was so small; it was no secret that Roksana and Matrona were close friends.

He knew exactly where to look for her next.

Mouth dry, Matrona ran straight into the wood, keeping the Zotov izba at her back. She was breathless by the first tree. Her legs grew light as she ran over the uneven forest floor, passing a narrow brook and ducking beneath tree limbs that all looked similar to one another. She ran until her chest and thighs ached, until the energy left her stride.