The Fifth Doll(38)

“Unthinkable,” her father said as Matrona set the pot on a folded towel and grabbed a pitcher of water to fill cups. The words weren’t addressed to her, but to her mother, who was setting the table. Her father leaned against the wall near his seat at the table, his arms folded against his chest.

“I’ve always said they are a vile family,” her mother retorted, setting down a bowl almost hard enough to shatter it. She glanced once at Matrona, who pretended not to see. “With sons like that, it’s no wonder Olia lost her mind.”

Matrona pressed her lips together, trapping her tongue. When had it become so hard for her to swallow words? They pushed against her teeth, demanding that she come to the defense of Jaska Maysak, but she would be sentencing herself to further humiliation to do so. Already the threat of spinsterhood loomed ahead of her, though she had yet to hear Feodor’s thoughts on the revelations.

“Do you love him?”

Her heart beat a little faster, her thoughts threatening to consume her yet again. Those same thoughts had made her burn the kasha and kept her awake most of the night. The revelation that Jaska cared for her.

It was too absurd to believe.

“I always thought Viktor . . . ,” her father began, but whatever sentiment he intended to utter died on his lips.

“I don’t feel at all bad about Nastasya, seeing how she turned out. To hell with all of them,” her mother spat.

Matrona flinched, spilling water on the floor as she carried the cups to the table. “Mama!”

“It’ll be no surprise to them!” her mother countered, throwing spoons for the porridge onto the table. “Can’t go to heaven if it doesn’t exist. Hypocrites, every one of them. Feigning worship of the good Lord and then spitting on Him when our backs are turned.”

Matrona set down the cups. “I hardly think the Maysaks would spit on another’s deity.”

“Another’s!” Her mother turned on her, jabbing a pointed index finger into Matrona’s breastbone. “There is only one God, Matrona! Still my heart, what will I do with you?” Her eyes narrowed. “You stay away from that disgusting boy, you hear me?”

“I assure you, I have no intention of mingling with Jaska Maysak,” Matrona lied, stirring the kasha.

Her father rubbed his forehead with a thumb and forefinger. “I’ll visit Oleg today.”

Her mother grumbled and rubbed her eyes. “It’s no fault of ours this time. He’ll have to be lenient. We already gave him the dairy.”

Matrona nearly dropped the pot. “You did what?”

“Didn’t I say we made sacrifices to keep this marriage together?” her mother snapped.

Her father said, “It’s not so much as all that. Feodor will run the dairy and double his family’s allotment is all.”

“Double?” Matrona set the porridge on the table. “You don’t just double an allotment; everyone receives the same.”

“Tell that to Afon Maysak,” her mother spat. “Half his brewing goes down his own throat.” She turned to Matrona’s father. “Yes, see Oleg. Take Matrona.”

“I don’t believe that will help,” her father said.

Her mother turned to her. “You should bake. Something delicious, to ease the tensions. Feodor won’t have forgotten your own indiscretions.”

“A folly I never acted on,” Matrona countered, but her heart split into fluttering pieces within its cage of ribs. But could I act on it? How it would humiliate her parents if she abandoned a strong marriage prospect for a too-young potter boy who didn’t even believe in God.

Yet she could not forget how alive Jaska made her feel. The sight of his shadow by the tradesman’s home, the warmth of his skin in the cellar of the pottery, the strength of his arms as they lifted her into his cart—each moment she’d spent with him had made more of an impact on her than the weeks of her engagement to Feodor.

Days. It seemed like years.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Matrona thought, Stop it, stop it. You’re making it harder for yourself, and for him. Pretend like you don’t know. You’ll ruin everything, knowing.

Feodor and Jaska were so different, Matrona thought as she sat down to break her fast with her family. Feodor was an outstanding man, well disciplined and well liked among the village. Skilled with a knife and competent. Intelligent beyond his occupation. He was lean and attractive. Should Matrona open his doll, she didn’t think a single foul thing would escape from it.

Yet Jaska . . . Jaska was so much more feeling. He was adventurous. He was bold, and he was compassionate. Matrona had always admired the way he helped his aging mother around the village, using soft words whenever she got anxious. Even the thought of him touching her made her skin tingle. Already he had touched her more than her own betrothed, and guilt ate away at Matrona’s gut from the way she craved it.

It still shocked her, his disbelief in God. She believed in Him; she always had. To think He didn’t exist . . . she’d be a shell empty of its nut. God was limb to her body, one she was sure she couldn’t function without.

But Jaska. Jaska wasn’t a heathen or a devil worshipper or whatever other names her mother had to sling at him. He was a good person, one of the best in her acquaintance, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Thinking about him thinking about her.