The Fifth Doll(47)

So she went to the Zotov izba, unsurprised to find Galina there, still working with Roksana, who hadn’t improved. Matrona stayed as long as she could stand, tidying the rooms and helping Alena with dinner, despite the way the woman still glared at her. Matrona could listen to her dear friend scream only so many times before her heart couldn’t bear it anymore, and she left.

Slava had called for her near dinnertime, her father said when she returned home. And as she lay in bed, her mind turned over the first three dolls: the secrets, the belligerence, and the memories. What could a fourth doll show her? And what if she didn’t succeed in opening Jaska’s?

What if she did, and Slava caught her?

She woke the next morning with a headache that only worsened as she milked the cows, the rhythm of splashing milk pounding into her skull. So much grief, and yet she still didn’t know why the dolls existed in the first place, how their vulgar magic worked, or what exactly Slava wanted her to do once old age claimed him.

Resolving herself for Jaska’s sake, Matrona changed into a clean blue sarafan and left for Slava’s sleeping-dragon home midmorning. She hadn’t yet reached the bend in the road when she heard her name.

Turning around, she saw Feodor heading up the path toward her. Biting down on a mindless stutter, Matrona nodded her head in greeting, silent, as she usually was around him.

Feodor glanced up the path. “Are you off to see Roksana?” he asked. “I should recommend you stay away. Madness can only beget madness.”

The advice chafed at Matrona. She tried to ignore it. “No, my legs just need exercise. And Slava asked to see me. His izba is my destination.” Best to stay with as much truth as possible. Matrona’s head hurt too much to keep up with lies today.

Feodor raised an eyebrow. “Again?”

“You’ve been speaking with my parents.” She couldn’t remember discussing Slava with him.

“I am perpetually speaking with your parents.” He started up the path, and Matrona walked beside him, noticing he didn’t offer her his arm, or reach for her hand. Were Jaska in his place, wouldn’t he have done so?

He continued, “I spoke with Jaska Maysak yesterday.”

Matrona kept her eyes forward and prayed away any color that might rise to her face. Feodor didn’t need to use the surname, as there was only one Jaska in the village, just as there was only one Feodor and one Matrona. Yet the addition added a sort of formality—a distance that perhaps, to Feodor, made Jaska seem more a thing than a person. People often spoke of the Maysaks that way.

“Oh? Another cracked jug?” Matrona winced at the feigned nonchalance. Of course he would expect her to know about Jaska’s . . . revelations.

Feodor detected it. “Are you really unconcerned? Do you expect me to be?”

Matrona glanced to him. “Have I given you good reason to be concerned, Feodor? You know where my loyalties lie.” But do I? she wondered—a thought that sent a cold pang through her chest.

Feodor rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Trouble, the lot of it.”

They’d moved around the bend, and Matrona could see Slava’s house lurking ahead of them. She realized she’d been clenching her fists and forced them to relax. Scraping together some courage, Matrona asked, “Why do you want to marry me?”

Feodor dropped his hand. “Pardon? That’s a bold question.”

“But an important one.” She slowed her steps to buy herself more time. “If I may ask it,” she added.

A small frown touched Feodor’s mouth. “Because despite the . . . complications . . . we’ve experienced as of late, you are the obvious choice.”

Matrona looked forward again, focusing on Slava’s house, trying not to let Feodor’s answer burrow too deeply. She heard the underlying meaning: You’re the best choice, given my options. There were only a handful of eligible women Feodor could marry without leaving the village—and, of course, he couldn’t do that because of the loop, and because of the spell that forbade him from noticing it.

Matrona didn’t know what she had thought he would say. She knew better than to hope for a declaration of love. She half expected him to say, Who else would I offer to? Galina Maysak? but the next words from his mouth were, “Here we are. Take care, Matrona.”

They’d reached Slava’s house. Matrona, who had spent all day yesterday avoiding the tradesman, found herself eager to get inside, if only to escape Feodor’s obvious indifference.

“Thank you for the escort.” At least he had been both kind and direct. She offered another nod before slogging up to Slava’s portico. She didn’t look back as she knocked on the door.

“Come,” Slava’s voice called, and Matrona slipped inside. She heard Pamyat squawk in response to the door shutting, the sound especially loud. She realized why when she stepped into Slava’s front room and saw the bird of prey at its center, wings raised like scythes, talons digging into the leather of a long glove protecting the tradesman’s right arm.

“Easy,” Slava cooed to the kite, holding up his naked left hand, palm flat and facing the bird’s face. Pamyat opened his mouth to hiss, but no sound came out. Stepping lightly, Slava carried the bird to his perch, which had been moved into the far corner of the room. As soon as the kite was settled, Slava fed the bird some sort of meat from a pouch at his hip. Pamyat gobbled it up without a second thought.