The Fifth Doll(46)

Jaska sighed. “Matrona, when you opened my first doll—”

His words sent a cool thrill through her. There was one secret they hadn’t discussed. And yet the shadows still lurking in the dark corners of her mind screamed at her, reminding her how wrong it would be for them to acknowledge the way they both felt. Her parents had sacrificed so much to keep Feodor for her, hadn’t they? It had been an act of love. Love they rarely showed anymore.

“Please, Jaska.” His name was just louder than a whisper.

Jaska’s mouth closed so quickly, Matrona heard the snap of his teeth. He ran a hand back through his hair. “Just let me know what snow is like. Let me see it for myself. To help my mother.”

Matrona looked away, blood coursing too fast, pretending to study the crooked bough of a hornbeam. “There is no saving her,” she murmured. “Or Roksana. Slava said as much.”

“Matrona.”

“I’ll open it.” The promise sucked the energy from her. “But we must wait the three days. I couldn’t forgive myself if you . . .”

She didn’t say went mad, but Jaska nodded his full understanding.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Three days.”

She nodded. “Then I’ll only have to avoid Slava for one.” He probably wouldn’t do too much damage if she put him off a single day . . . yet the thought made her uneasy. “I won’t be able to get to your doll otherwise. I need to be invited in.”

“Won’t he see?”

Matrona glanced at him, at his desperate eyes, at the stubble lining his jaw. For some reason, she was glad he didn’t wear a beard.

“I’ll figure out something.” Oddly enough, it seemed the more Matrona stoked Slava’s temper, the less afraid of it she became. Perhaps that was the secret to his undoing.

Or to hers.

They trudged through the wood again, separating when the unmarked path grew too rocky, coming back together when it smoothed.

“Not if it will endanger you,” Jaska said after a stretch of silence.

Matrona had already begun to formulate a plan in her mind. She nodded almost absently. “It won’t. He won’t know, if I do it right.”

“How will you . . . ?”

Matrona smiled at him. “I have a hunch that a bit of clumsiness can go a long way.”

Jaska grinned at her, bits of sunlight from the uneven canopy spotting his hair bronze. They were close enough to hear the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer.

“Thank you,” he continued, “for showing me. It makes me understand even less, but I’m glad to know. And . . . thank you for not hating me.”

Matrona looked at him, surprised. “Why would I?”

Jaska snorted. “Even before the dolls, people found plenty of reasons.”

She shook her head. “Jaska, I could never—”

He grabbed her before she could finish the sentiment, his hand a vise around her wrist, jerking her toward him and behind an oak. Matrona’s face burned like the kiln, but Jaska’s attention wasn’t on her.

“Wh-What?” she croaked.

Matrona glanced around the tree. They were right on the edge of the village. She hadn’t realized.

“I think you should wait here before starting home.”

“Why?”

He gestured with a tilt of his head. Following his gaze, Matrona looked toward the pottery. Specifically, to a tall, lean man standing outside of it, his arms crossed over a spotless kosovorotka.

“Feodor?” she murmured.

“I don’t think he’ll be happy to see us emerging from the wood together.”

A defense rose up her throat, but Matrona swallowed it. “Yes, that would be wise.”

Jaska ran a hand back through his hair, and Matrona realized the habit was why it always looked unkempt. “This will be enjoyable.”

“He may just need a pot—”

Jaska laughed. “Matrona, Feodor is not the kind of man that waits around for anything if he can help it. If he’s here, empty-handed, he’s waiting for me.”

Matrona paled. She almost asked, Why? but there was no point. They both knew.

Jaska touched her shoulder, and Matrona hoped he couldn’t feel her pulse pick up beneath her skin. “Take care.” He pulled away and stepped into the village.

Matrona stared ahead for a few seconds before daring to peek back around the oak. Jaska strode toward the pottery, and Feodor’s gaze fell heavily upon him. They spoke for a brief moment before stepping inside the house, not the pottery. Matrona frowned. Feodor wasn’t confronting him, was he? They hadn’t done anything . . .

Did Feodor care about her enough to snuff out possible competition? Matrona snorted. Likely he’s assuaging his own pride.

She shook her head at the thought, but then again, strange things had been pouring into Matrona’s life like milk into a cistern. A frown tugging on her lips, Matrona stepped out of the wood and followed a path at random, her fingers lingering on the prints she could still feel on her shoulder.



Matrona evaded her home most of the day, skirting her parents when she could—not only did she not want an argument about how she was spending her time, but she feared Slava would turn them into living dolls again. Finding her, speaking to her through their mouths.