The Fifth Doll(25)

Jaska shook his head, turning from her for a moment, walking to the nearest stone wall and back. The Maysaks were a large family, but their cellar was no bigger than anyone else’s. The scents of mice and mildew hung in the air, and the muffled noises of people and birds occasionally filtered in through the cracks in the doors.

Matrona felt his eyes on her before she saw the faint glint of choked sunlight in them. “You’d be surprised. Believe me, I can keep a secret.”

She shook her head. “It’s not a matter of trust, Jaska! He threatened to—”

Some of the sunlight snuffed out as a body approached the cellar door. Matrona froze, but Jaska grabbed her hand and tugged her to the back of the small space, opening the door to a closet Matrona hadn’t noticed. He thrust her in gracelessly just as the cellar doors creaked open, then shoved his way in behind her and pulled the door shut, careful not to let it close too loudly.

The closet was just wide enough to fit Matrona’s shoulders, and just short enough to force Jaska to bend his head down ever so slightly. He pressed his face to the doors, peering through the crack between them. The faintest sigh passed from his lips. Matrona held her breath, trying not to think of his arm pressing against her arm or his feet spaced between hers. Only a few more inches and they’d be body to body.

Chiding herself without words, she listened. The steps coming down the stairs were not heavy enough to be Slava’s. A few jars shuffled on a set of shelves, and then the feet returned up the stairs. The light between the closet doors vanished as the cellar was shut once more.

“My father,” Jaska whispered, and Matrona relaxed into the corners of the closet. A dim slice of light illuminated his grim expression, and she wondered if Afon had just retrieved a bottle of kvass. Matrona knew little of the relationship between Jaska and his father, but the man had never been around on the occasions she’d watched the younger Maysaks.

Still, Jaska didn’t open the closet doors. His eyes lingered at the crack. “I’m sure Slava saw us,” he continued. “What does he want with you?”

Matrona pinched her lips together, too many words boiling in her throat.

“Matrona,” he whispered. “What happened that day, at his house?”

“Dolls,” she croaked.

He pulled back, smacking the back of his head on the closet ceiling. “What?”

“Dolls,” she repeated. “The tradesman’s house is full of dolls.” She knew she sounded mad, but if anyone could tolerate madness in the village, it was a man who had been raised alongside it. “He has a room full of them. Wooden dolls, only with smaller dolls nesting inside them. They’re painted to look like us—the villagers. I have one, you have one, my father has one. So many dolls. All of us are in there.”

He shifted in the darkness, and she wished he would stoop enough for the sliver of light to reveal his reaction.

She swallowed and steadied herself. “I returned a paintbrush. I saw them, all of them. Tried to open my father’s and left. He acted so strangely after that. And I went back. I went back to his house”—she was breathless—“and he told me I had to replace him. Slava. That I had to take care of his dolls because I had seen them. Because he was old. They’re connected to us, Jaska.”

The way she issued his name made it sound like a desperate cry. Jaska held very still, listening. Matrona straightened as best she could.

He tried to lift an arm, but there wasn’t space, so he dropped it. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re connected to us, somehow,” she whispered, suddenly aware of the silence settling in the cellar. “Witchcraft . . . I don’t understand it. But he made me open my doll. After I removed the first layer, everyone knew my . . . secrets.”

Her face burned, and she thanked the darkness, though the close walls made the air sweltering. Steeling herself, she asked, “How did you know, Jaska? Who told you those parts of my . . . thoughts?”

He went so still, he could have been a carving. Even his breaths barely registered to Matrona’s ears. “I . . .” He paused. “I’m not sure.”

“Everyone knew instantly.” Words flowed from her like water. “And three days later, I opened the second doll, and it brought up such darkness inside of me. Torture rolling around my head, torture I put there from the time I learned to think.” She couldn’t explain it any other way. “It hit me right before you found me. And it’s been three days. He told me I had to come back after three days, but I don’t want to go back.”

She leaned against the closet’s back wall, ignoring the splinters poking through her dress. “It sounds mad,” she whispered, “but it’s true. It’s all true.”

The quiet between them grew stale.

Matrona pushed against the closet door until it opened. She couldn’t do this without seeing his face. Without knowing if he thought her mad. The cellar air felt cool when she stepped out. She eyed the cellar doors, listening.

Jaska stepped out as well and closed the closet doors. “I’ve heard worse.” A weak smile touched his lips. “And no one else believes you?”

“I’ve told no one else. He forbade it.”

Jaska drew a long breath through his nose and released slowly through his mouth. “I don’t know Slava well.” It seemed as if he wanted to say more, but any further words died in a low sound in his throat. “These . . . dolls,” he spoke carefully, “they’re why he wants you?”