The Fifth Doll(35)

He rubbed his chest, the rising moon glinting off his teeth. “Quite an arm you’ve got.”

She adjusted her head scarf. “A butter churn will do that.”

He chuckled deep in his throat. The sound faded. “You were right; his horse and wagon are gone. The house is empty.”

“Except for the kite.”

“Kite?”

“His pet.” The darkness swallowed Jaska, so there was no telling if his expression changed. “How long have you been here?”

“Since twilight. I thought . . . I wondered if you’d changed your mind.”

“I promised.”

“You’re a woman of your word.” His tone softened in a way that rose gooseflesh on Matrona’s arms. Just the cool of night, she told herself. Certainly there wasn’t any hidden meaning in Jaska’s words or the way he’d said them.

She swallowed, the walls of her throat feeling too thick.

Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Jaska said, “I’m sorry . . . If you tell me where the room is—”

“No, I’ll go. It’ll be quicker that way.” Besides, she couldn’t explain all the rules of the dolls to him now, and she couldn’t trust him to leave everything behind exactly as he’d found it. Scanning the path behind her and finding it empty, Matrona crept toward the house, Jaska falling in step beside her.

“Will they know you’re missing?” he asked. “Your parents.”

“I don’t know. I hope not. If they find out, I’ll tell them a cow escaped or something.”

She could feel his grin beside her like a flame. It gave her courage. Halting, she turned to him. “Stay here.”

He nodded, stepping into a black shadow beside the house.

Matrona licked her lips. “You know what it will do, don’t you?”

“Will it be the same?” he asked. “As . . . yours?”

Matrona shocked herself by not blushing at the question, at the reminder of how her most guarded secret had spread through their village like the seeds of a weed. She answered honestly. “I don’t know. I assume so.”

He hesitated only a second, but it was long enough for Matrona to notice. “I suppose we’ll see.”

She nodded, once, and hurried to Slava’s front door. Every footstep in the grass sounded like shattering ceramic, and the rays of the moon, so faint and gentle, became blazing suns. She reached the portico and spun around, pulling her scarf close, searching the village for onlookers. Her breath caught at the sight of movement close to the wood, but as she stared into the darkness, she saw only the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze.

She hurried to the door. The sooner this was done, the better.

Grasping the handle, Matrona pushed the door open, smelling wood and the faint traces of Slava’s cigars. She slipped into the entry hall, shutting the door behind her, the squeaking of its hinges rattling her as much as a baby’s cry. She listened for movement within the house, heard none. No light peeked under any doorways or down the staircase.

She hurried through the front room, from which the satchel and bridle had been taken. The toe of her shoe caught on a chair leg, and Matrona paused just long enough to ensure the furniture was positioned exactly how Slava had left it, before cutting through the kitchen and down the carpeted hallway.

Away from the windows, Matrona pulled her candle from her pocket and tugged her sleeve around her fingers to keep the melting wax off her skin. She lit it, the bright burst of flame marring her sight with brown spots. Through the pulse thumping in her ears, she heard the rustle of feathers.

She opened the door to the room of dolls. The candlelight reflected off Pamyat’s yellow eyes as the bird hunched his wings, opening his beak and hissing. The bloody skin of a rat hung from one of his talons.

“Hush,” Matrona snapped at it, the word sounding like her own hiss. “Does he ever let you out of this room?”

The kite’s wings didn’t settle, and his beak remained open, threatening, but he stayed on his perch. Perhaps the close walls and ceiling hindered him from attacking her, but Matrona didn’t want to stay long enough to test the theory.

She knew exactly where Jaska’s doll lay, as Slava never moved it. She hurried over and picked it up, careful not to bump any other dolls. Her eyes looked over it quickly. Its likeness was a flat painting, and yet it looked remarkably like Jaska, down to the unkemptness of his hair.

Her gaze fluttered to the other dolls. The gloss of Nastasya Kalagin’s green eyes reflected the candlelight. What secrets did she have? Or Lenore Demidov beside her, who had sneered so righteously when Matrona’s own secrets spilled into the village. Would Lenore purse her lips and turn up her nose if her secrets became common knowledge? Pavel and Oleg had roused Jaska’s suspicions. What could they have to hide?

Yet that would make her just like Slava, wouldn’t it? Playing with these people as if they were the very dolls the tradesman had made them out to be, toying with them against their wills. Subjecting them to the same torment Matrona herself had suffered.

The candlelight flickered as she leaned toward the dolls. The painted face of Feodor caught her attention. Her stomach tightened as she met the doll’s gaze. What did he really think of her, and of their betrothal? She could find out. All it would take was one twist, one pull. Yet as Matrona stared into the blue gaze of the doll, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.