The Fifth Doll(27)

She didn’t speak the number, but Jaska continued, “What can he do that’s worse than what he’s already done?”

“I can think of a few things.” She was being too easy with her tongue. Her mother would have shared hard words for the comment, but Jaska was unruffled.

“He’ll hurt you?”

Matrona pondered. “I . . . I don’t think Slava would physically harm me.” Such a thing was unheard of, outside of parental discipline. Would the tradesman dare do anything that would leave a mark? Something Matrona could use to accuse him? Or would his attacks be solely supernatural?

Good heavens, was this what her life had become?

“I . . . ,” she began, but realized she didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

“Think about it,” Jaska whispered. “But not for . . . my sake. Don’t you want to know what it all means?” Though the shadows hid parts of his face, Matrona felt the stiffness that hardened the air around them, reminding her, He knows.

Before the embarrassment could solidify around her, putting her in a cage, Jaska said, “Let me take a look around, see if he’s gone. You’re welcome to hide as long as you want. I’ll let you know what I find.”

Matrona nodded, unsure if Jaska could see it. He crossed the cellar in a few long strides, took the stairs two at a time, and pushed open the rightmost cellar door.

The sunlight it let into Matrona’s chilly sanctuary was blinding.



There was little time left to decide.

Matrona had spent most of the day walking the strange loop of the wood, evading Slava. It would be dark soon. She certainly couldn’t stay in the Maysaks’ cellar overnight.

She sat on the second-to-last stair, weariness washing over her. She helped herself to some bread from her pack as she mulled over her options.

It was impossible to leave the wood, and in the clarity of her solitude, she accepted that she could not hide from Slava forever. What more could happen if she opened another doll? She couldn’t fathom anything worse than the secrets and the darkness, and her mother had always groaned that Matrona had too much imagination.

Jaska couldn’t understand, not fully. He hadn’t held the dolls in his hands, hadn’t seen the changes one little twist created in her father. He hadn’t borne the humiliation of a hundred spilled secrets or the belittlement of years of self-doubt and failures. And yet he was the only one who knew of her forced arrangement with the tradesman. He might, Matrona realized, be the only person in the village who would ever believe such an implausible tale. Matrona wondered if that was due to the stories she used to tell him when he was a boy, thanks to the very imagination that seemed to be failing her now.

Her cheeks heated a little at the thought. A boy. Mercy in heaven, what must Jaska think of her, knowing the way she’d ogled him in the past? Knowing the imprudence of her feelings?

How kind of him to help her anyway . . .

But Slava couldn’t know that she’d betrayed her unspoken oath to keep the dolls secret. He could never know.

And so Matrona would give him no reason to suspect her.

Grabbing a fistful of her skirt, Matrona stood and hiked up the stairs, pushing her shoulder into the cellar door to open it. The sky began to tint pink as the sun crawled toward its wooded bed. Matrona realized that this ritual, too, was caught in an endless loop.

She hurried from the cellar before anyone could see her departure. Her parents would certainly be wondering after her by now, and she had to reveal herself to them before they started alerting the neighbors and causing more trouble. Her mind spun a story as she hurried to her izba. She dropped the pack inside the pasture gate before stepping inside, lest she raise even more suspicion.

“Where on God’s earth have you been?” her mother spat. She had been drying dishes, and threw the towel into the air hard enough for it to strike the ceiling. “You’re not married yet, Matrona, and this disrespect is unacceptable! And the tradesman! Slava Barinov, of all people, came by looking for you, and I had to fumble my words trying not to look like an utter fool—”

“I spoke with Slava.” It felt oddly invigorating to cut off her mother. “We had a long conversation. He’s trading for some cows soon and wanted my opinion on what he should look for. I apologize for my delay, but he was insistent.”

The lie slid off her tongue so easily, it was startling—not only to Matrona, but to her mother as well.

“Slava asked you for breeding advice?” Her mother’s voice was incredulous, her eyes calculating. “Why not ask your father? Or me, for that matter?” She paused and rubbed at her belly. “We certainly know more.”

Matrona shrugged, trying not to betray the nerves that prickled beneath her skin, down to the center of her chest. “You’ll have to ask him. Are you well?”

Her mother pursed her lips and stacked plates inside the cupboard. “Must have eaten something sour while you were off on your own. Father’s been feeling it, too. It will pass.”

Matrona frowned as she watched her mother’s hand massage her middle again. That was where the seams on the dolls were, wasn’t it?

All the more reason to make haste.

“Good night, Mama.”

She walked away, and her mother remained silent. Matrona slid into the darkness of her bedroom, and then out the window into the twilight.