The Fifth Doll(34)

She had to leave soon. She had to sneak into Slava’s home, again.

But what if she’d been mistaken about the satchel and bridle? What if the tradesman had merely returned from a trip? Surely if his horse and wagon were there, Jaska wouldn’t insist on going through with their mad plan.

It suddenly occurred to her that someone could see them together in the night, just as she’d seen Jaska’s brother with a village girl. She would never be able to explain it away enough to—

“Matrona!” Roksana called, a wide smile painting her mouth. She drew closer. “Feodor and Oleg at your home? For dinner? Things are going well, then?”

Matrona forced herself to focus on her dear friend, but her mind fluttered like moths near a candle. “I, uh, yes. Well.”

“Don’t tell me everything at once.” A line formed between Roksana’s eyebrows. “I’ve barely seen or spoken to you lately. I’ve been worried. Pavel tells me you came by looking for me the other day.”

Matrona blinked, trying to process the new information as it piled onto the clutter of Feodor, Jaska, and Slava. Roksana, yes. To hide from Slava.

“Yes,” she answered, glancing at the sky. Why was it darkening so quickly? She turned to look at the house, but neither of her parents had lingered in the doorway. “But I’m fine now.”

“Fine now?” Roksana repeated, grasping Matrona’s fingers to engage her attention. “You weren’t fine before? Are you still ill?”

“No, I was just . . . visiting.”

“We have time to visit now.” She smiled. “Luka ran over to the Grankins’, so he’ll be by in a bit to fetch me—”

Matrona rubbed her forehead. “Oh, Roksana, I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t talk now.”

The line between her friend’s brows deepened. “Why ever not? Your guests just left, and we have a lot to talk about. Do you and Feodor have a date set yet? Have you tried on the dress—”

“I have something to do. Something personal.” Her tongue felt too loose. Where was that easy lying when she needed it? “Yes, we have a date. Two weeks from today. And no, I haven’t tried the dress on yet.”

“Not yet! What if it needs a lot of tailoring? What are you waiting for?” Roksana tipped her head to one side. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?” She lifted her hand to check Matrona’s forehead.

Matrona stepped back to avoid the touch. Tried to smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll catch up. There’s no school, right?”

Roksana frowned. “You’ve been so strange lately.” She folded her arms. “You used to tell me everything.”

“I will, I will!” she countered, trying to force enthusiasm into her voice. “But it’s getting dark and I need . . . to do something. Please, tomorrow.”

Roksana’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded her consent, and Matrona took the gesture as permission to return inside, where she changed into the darkest sarafan she had. The palms of her hands perspired as she listened to her parents shuffle about while they prepared for bed. Matrona lit a candle and then grabbed a comb and unbraided her hair, the long black locks falling in waves over her shoulders. She plaited it in two tails, one over each shoulder, as Roksana wore hers, then found an old scarf to wear over her head. If she changed her silhouette, perhaps she would be less recognizable in the dark. She checked her pockets to ensure they were empty—it would bring bad fortune to take more out of the house than needed at night, and Matrona wanted to secure as much luck as possible.

A shifting of darkness at the window caught the corner of her eye; she turned, but saw nothing in the gap between her curtains. The wood had devoured the last wisps of twilight. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she tugged the curtains completely closed. Then she blew out her candle, bathing herself in darkness, and slid it and a single match into her pocket.

Listening for her parents and hearing their low voices in their bedroom, Matrona slipped into the hallway. She winced when a floorboard creaked under her heel and then quickened her step, again waiting until she was in the pasture to put on her shoes. Traveling this path in stealth had become all too familiar to her.

She slinked out the gate, spying windows in the village alight with candles and lamps. One extinguished under her gaze. She kept her distance from the main path, walking just close enough to follow it. She heard two men talking to each other on a porch; one laughed heartily. Matrona eyed the sky, the slim band of light over the wood summoning the rising moon. She was late. Her steps moved in time with her heartbeat, quick and sharp.

A few more windows darkened as she pulled away from the thickest grouping of the izbas and moved toward the north face of the wood. Cricket song filled the quiet space between each breath. The moon peeked over the treetops, and in its light Matrona saw the edge of Slava’s roof. No light emanated from his home. A good sign, yet Matrona’s nerves stung her limbs like hornets.

Her steps slowed as she neared the house. What if Slava lingered inside? What if he saw her? Her mind fumbled for an excuse—

A hand on her elbow shot her heart out of her chest. She spun and smacked her open palm into her assailant’s chest—

“Matrona!” the shadow whispered, letting her go. “It’s me!”

Matrona stepped back, trying to catch her breath. “Jaska?”