The Fifth Doll(52)

Had Slava intended that to be part of her “responsibility”?

She reached the pottery. Only Kostya occupied it, so Matrona went straight to the house and knocked on the door, expecting Galina to answer.

No one came.

She knocked a second time, harder. No answer. No footsteps on the other side of the door, either. She chewed on her lip. Viktor lived in another izba with his wife. Galina often took Olia on walks to help her stretch her legs, and Afon . . . Afon could be anywhere.

But if Jaska’s darkness was as debilitating as Matrona’s, he wouldn’t go far.

Stomach tight, Matrona knocked a third time. No answer. She turned the knob and called into the house. Still no answer.

She stepped inside, a flitting memory of what had happened the last time she entered a house uninvited bouncing about her head. The Maysak izba hadn’t changed much since Matrona’s child-tending days. The front room had a wooded smell, its log sides made of a lighter wood than those in her own izba. Worn furniture took up three of its four corners. Beyond that, a small kitchen and woodstove. Then bedrooms and a narrow set of stairs to the attic.

That attic had been converted into a bedroom, which Jaska and Kostya had shared as boys. Matrona wondered if that were still the case.

“Jaska?” Matrona called, walking through the house. She listened for the sound of inhabitants, or perhaps Afon snoring as he slept off his latest alcohol-induced headache. “Galina?” she tried.

The place seemed completely empty, which was strange, given the number of Maysaks who inhabited it. It could be disastrous if someone, especially Afon, discovered her roaming it, but she had to check the attic before she’d be content to look for Jaska elsewhere.

She didn’t want him to be alone, as she had been.

The stairs to the attic were so steep, they were almost a ladder, and Matrona had to ball her skirt into her fists to climb them. She heard a soft groan, so she hurried up the remaining steps, nearly hitting her head on the sloping roof.

There were two low beds, one against each angled wall, both narrow with bits of straw poking out from the mattress. One simple side table between them, one half of a candlestick, a pitcher, a cup. Jaska stretched out over the leftmost bed, one elbow swung over his eyes, the other tucked next to his ribs. His hand rested on his stomach as though it pained him.

It came almost unbidden this time, showing her a layer of darkness dripping like sludge. The doll-sight pierced through it, and she saw dancing across Jaska’s hair a faint loneliness that mirrored her own, a desire for truth knotted in his core. There was a drive inside him to find solutions to problems, his or others’. Deeply ingrained affection for people; disorganized thoughts. A pain for his parents that pressed on her as heavily as Kostya’s had.

A trust and affection for a woman tied up with another man.

Her pulse quickened and her bones felt light enough to float.

She swallowed and whispered, “Jaska.”

He startled as though waking from a deep and treacherous sleep. He sat up ever so slightly, now pressing a hand to his head. Matrona thought she could feel the pulsing pain of it in the too-warm air. She crossed the room to him, ignoring the squirming feeling in her gut that told her it was improper. The floorboards creaked under her feet. Jaska blinked his red eyes before his gaze found her. Matrona thought he looked almost relieved.

She knelt on the floor beside his bed. “Is it terrible?” she asked at the same time he said, “You opened it.”

His voice was strained, and he closed his eyes again, wincing as he did so. “Yes,” he answered. “Yesterday . . . was worse.”

“I looked for you.” She took his hand in both of hers, if only to root him to reality, to give him some sensation other than the roiling darkness that consumed his mind. “You weren’t home.”

“I was . . . in the wood. Setting snares. There until dark, then . . . I got lost.” He chuckled once, a dry and scratchy sound. “Haven’t done that . . . since I was a boy.”

“I remember.” It was the reason she’d been asked to tend to the Maysak children for a time. The boys had gotten lost, and it was determined someone needed to watch over them since the older children struggled to do that, work, and tend to Olia’s sickness.

He swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing with the effort. Releasing him, Matrona went to the side table and poured water into the cup there. Jaska accepted it with a weak grip and drank slowly.

Matrona set the empty cup on the floor. “It will fade.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“No one is home—”

“Not anywhere with me,” he clarified, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. “I’m . . . awful.”

“You’re not.” Matrona snatched up his hand again and squeezed it. “It’s just the spell.”

“It’s all true.”

“It will pass. In a day or two, the shadows will brighten, the memories will fade, and the voice will quiet. Then you’ll be yourself again.”

“I don’t . . . want to be.”

“Be what?”

He groaned. “Myself.”

“Jaska Maysak.” She rose from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, though the narrow mattress barely allowed enough space for her. “You are not awful. You are not any of the things Slava’s sorcery would have you believe.”