The Fifth Doll(53)

His eyelids fluttered open. A vein rose in the center of his forehead.

“You are wonderful,” Matrona continued, softer now. “You are diligent. You are a dedicated son and a faithful brother. You work tirelessly in that shop to see to the needs of the village. You’re patient with your father . . . and with Feodor.”

Feodor’s name felt strange on her tongue, tasteless and heavy. Feodor. She hadn’t thought of him since he’d escorted her to Slava’s home. Didn’t want to think of him.

Jaska snorted. “That man’s back wouldn’t bend if an ox sat on it.” His eyes looked a little clearer, and Matrona let a trickle of relief urge a smile onto her face.

She sought to pull him from the throes of the sorcery, to push aside the shadows lingering in his expression. “You are kind. You’ve been nothing but kind to me even after I opened my first doll. You’ve helped me more through this ordeal than anyone else.”

Jaska pulled his hand from her grip and pressed it into the bed, trying to sit up. Another wince.

“You may not believe in God,” Matrona went on, quieter still, “but you are faithful. You believed me. You care in a way other people do not. You’re not afraid to show your heart, and it’s good, Jaska.”

She felt the warm pads of his fingers on the back of her arm, though she hadn’t seen him move. The touch made no sound, yet it sent a wave of alertness through her. Jaska’s gaze leveled with hers, and through that singular connection, Matrona could read his thoughts, clearer even than the memories his doll had spilled into her mind. Her pulse reverberated off the slanted walls in beats of three, and in them she heard the name again: Fe-o-dor.

Jaska’s fingers tightened, a soft grip.

Feodor didn’t love her. He couldn’t give her the one thing she wanted more than anything. Even if that hadn’t been true, Matrona didn’t love him, and she had come to realize she never would.

Jaska pulled ever so faintly, urging her forward.

We’re all just dolls anyway, she thought.

She let herself drift toward him.

Jaska’s lips met hers. Shivers cascaded down the sides of her neck. His hand traced up her arm and slipped behind her braid, cradling her head, pulling her closer.

His lips were softer than she would have expected. His breath washed over her cheek as he turned his head and claimed her mouth again. Matrona eagerly gave it to him, parting her lips against his. The scents of wood smoke and angelica danced through her nose and throat.

Rough hands cupped either side of her face and pulled her back, just enough so that Jaska could rest his forehead against hers. His eyes were closed. She struggled to catch her breath.

She shouldn’t be here.

She didn’t want to leave.

“You make it better,” Jaska murmured. “The darkness. I’m sorry.” Despite the apology, he brushed her lips with a chaste kiss.

Matrona swallowed, the taste of him lingering in her mouth. “It will pass.”

He opened his eyes and smiled—smiled, despite the pain she knew was flooding him. That smile made her heart beat at an exhausting pace. But it faded, and Matrona knew he was thinking it, too. Feodor.

She didn’t want to think about Feodor.

“I opened the doll.” Her words, spoken on a whisper, were intended as a distraction, for she didn’t want to disturb the strange sort of tranquility that had settled in the sliver of space between them. “Nothing . . . terrible happened. Others behave oddly toward me, as though that first doll was never opened. As though I’m older and more deserving of respect than I am. My mother . . . she’s almost submissive.”

Jaska studied her eyes. “I feel nothing different. Toward you, that is.”

She was relieved to hear it. “Perhaps because we’ve opened two of your dolls. But the fifth doll, Jaska. It’s me. It’s us.”

Jaska leaned back and rubbed his temple with his thumb. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I. Not really. But somehow we’re inside those dolls. Somehow our bodies comprise the fifth part. I think . . . I think that’s why I see the wood grain in the sky, in the wood. I’m seeing the inside of the doll.”

He studied her. “But they fit in our hands.”

She nodded.

He shook his head. “Sorcery.” He winced. “And Slava?”

“Wants me to learn how to make them. Jaska, everyone has a doll but him. He wants me to make one for Roksana and Luka’s baby.”

“They had it?”

“Not yet, but soon. He says the baby will disappear if we don’t make the doll within a few days of its birth. I think”—her voice choked—“I think that’s why my sister vanished. She didn’t have a doll. Back then . . . Slava claims he didn’t know.”

“He didn’t know the rules of his own sorcery?”

She shrugged. Jaska tensed suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut. Matrona could only wonder at what cruel things stirred inside his mind. Could she use her new doll-sight to find out?

Did she want to?

“What can I do for you?” she asked.

Jaska leaned against the sloping roof beside his bed and gave her a hooded look, one that seemed to say Feodor without any letters or sound. He took a deep breath. “Make time go faster.”

“Perhaps Slava knows a way.”