The Fifth Doll(43)

She had little direction to follow, but she had to try. Something. Anything.

“Matrona.”

She looked up, her izba in the distance, and found Feodor not two paces from her on the path, several unplucked roosters, tied with strings, slung over his shoulder. There was a wool blanket under them, no doubt to keep his clothes clean.

She had nearly walked right past him.

“I need to talk to you,” the butcher said.

Matrona nodded numbly, looking toward her home. “My father mentioned visiting.”

“He has, but we are old enough to sort things for ourselves without our fathers’ by-your-leave. I’m sure I don’t need to enlighten you.”

Matrona eyed him.

Feodor sighed. “I never could have imagined the likes of Jaska Maysak being such a thorn in my side. I considered your issue with him resolved, but now, knowing he has motivation to . . . Matrona, have you been crying?”

Gritting her teeth, Matrona wiped her eyes once more.

Feodor frowned. “Whatever is wrong? But of course, you must be just as upset—”

“Feodor.” Her voice sounded too low. He stiffened, perhaps surprised at being interrupted. “I’m sorry to say that the only person I care about right now is Roksana, and I cannot pretend otherwise to ensure your satisfaction. Not now. Good day.”

Picking up her skirt, Matrona trudged past him to her home. Feodor would understand shortly, once the rumors ignited.

Relieved to see both her parents out in the pasture, Matrona went to her room, collected a few trinkets, and hiked back up to the Zotovs’ house.

This time she knocked, and Pavel let her in without comment.

Roksana had been moved to her bed, the headboard of which had been carved to depict a rearing stallion. The doctor examined her in much the same way he’d examined Matrona last week. Matrona waited outside the room as he spoke with Luka in a hushed voice. He left shaking his head, and Luka threw a fist into the wall before following, barely giving Matrona a second glance.

Matrona stepped into the room and climbed onto the bed beside Roksana, who stared at the ceiling with lidded eyes.

“Look at this.” Matrona offered her friend an embroidered handkerchief. “You gave this to me when I turned twenty.”

Roksana pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “All the colors, all the colors,” she muttered.

“Roksana.”

She shook her head and rolled onto her side, her belly pressing into Matrona. “Too big, too big. Out, out. But there’s the snow. It’s too cold for babies.”

Biting her lower lip, Matrona set the handkerchief down and retrieved a small music box. Winding it, she let it play—a simple folk song always sung at Christmas, one of Roksana’s favorites. She waited for Roksana to respond, but her friend did not seem to hear it at all.

“Babies die, too cold. Poor Esfir.”

Matrona’s breath caught, and when it released, it carried the name of her vanished sister. “Esfir?”

“Sleep, my beautiful good boy,” she sang. “Bayushki bayu. Quietly the moon is looking into your cradle.”

Roksana’s lullaby clashed with the metallic notes of the music box. Tears sprang anew, and Matrona pressed a knuckle to her lips to stifle a sob. It really is too late, isn’t it? She won’t come to herself.

Muffled voices behind the wall. Matrona caught “don’t need you in here,” “only asked for her,” and “wait outside” among their words. The front door shut.

A knock on the bedroom door. Matrona turned to see Galina Maysak step into the room, her shoulders hunched as though she wished to be smaller, her eyes slightly downcast as though in apology. When she looked up, her dark eyes brimmed with pity. Matrona saw no hope within their depths.

Trying to swallow and not succeeding, Matrona slid off the bed to make room for Galina. She left the handkerchief and music box, now silent, beside Roksana.

Galina nodded her thanks and approached Roksana, though she didn’t touch her. “Now here, what’s ailing you?”

Roksana continued to sing softly.

Galina looked to Matrona, her lips forming the smallest, saddest smile Matrona had ever beheld. “Who are you singing to sleep, Roksana?”

Roksana stopped midsentence and stared ahead for a long moment before pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes again. This time, however, she screamed.

The sound hit Matrona like a cleaver.

“All the colors!” Roksana shouted, pushing her hands into her face so hard, it had to hurt. “All the sounds! All the colors!”

The sob finally broke free, heavy and slick. Matrona rushed from the room, unable to bear the feral sounds ripping from Roksana’s throat—or to stomach her own guilt. Luka barreled past her and into the bedroom. Matrona made a sharp turn toward the back door to avoid the rest of the family. She stepped outside, the smells of sun-warmed grass and wood shavings from Pavel’s carpentry filling her nose.

She leaned against the side of the house and buried her face in her hands, letting another sob break free from her chest.

“It’s true, then.”

Matrona looked up to see Jaska before her, standing on the line of shadow cast by the eaves. He seemed a stark contrast to the blue skies and sturdy wood. Remembering the hard words muffled by Roksana’s bedroom wall, Matrona realized Jaska was the one who’d been turned away at the door. He looked older, as though weights hung from his facial features. The shade cast him in tones of gray.