The Fifth Doll(56)
Slava’s arm struck out like a serpent, his fingers fangs to ensnare her. Matrona stumbled back, out the door, narrowly missing his grip. Her shoulder struck the far wall of the hallway, and the burst of pain jolted her into action. She raced for the stairs, grabbing the skirt of her sarafan as she nearly tripped over it. Slava’s shadow filled the space behind her, his footsteps thundering over the carpet. A whimper escaped Matrona’s throat as she bounded into the kitchen.
Slava grabbed her elbow, but Matrona spun from his grasp before he could hold her. His body, a wall between the kitchen and the front room, blocked the exit.
“We don’t have a back door,” Jaska’s voice whispered, “but I doubt he’s lucid enough to notice you.”
Slava had a back door.
Spinning on her heel, Matrona sprinted for the door, moving faster than she ever had, straining every muscle in her body.
“No!” Slava shouted after her.
Her fingers reached for the handle.
“Stop!” he bellowed, chasing her.
Matrona grabbed the handle, but the hinges stuck as though rusted in place. Crying out, she shoved her weight into the door, bruising her shoulder down to the bone.
The door opened on screeching hinges. Matrona scrambled toward the wood, and knew.
Chapter 16
Slava hovered over the five-legged console just off center in his small but well-furnished room, turning over the pieces of the figurine he’d acquired on a trip to Japan some years ago. Its wood was yellowed with sap and painted with the face of an old man with a long forehead. The woman who had sold it to him called it Fukuruma. Seven dolls in all, a number for good luck. Slava had an inkling that the craftswoman had suspected the truth—he hadn’t bought the doll merely as a souvenir. He had seen the magic within it, the potential.
He had almost unlocked it.
Putting the Japanese doll down, he picked up his imitation, made of linden wood. It had to be a soft wood, and the others hadn’t sparked in his hands as they ought to have. They had either cracked when he tried to carve them or were simply null once formed, useless. But this doll was on the cusp. He had almost finished painting it, imitating the limbless appearance of the Japanese doll, but adorning the character—this one a woman—in Russian garb: a gold kokoshnik and a maroon sarafan. Not just any woman, but Her Imperial Majesty’s handmaid. The magic sparked when the doll mimicked a real person. It made Slava wonder who the old man depicted in the Japanese doll was, if he still lived.
He turned both dolls over, measuring them, nodding to himself. These would hold spells nicely, but he had to know the dolls’ utmost potential before presenting them to—
A firm knock sounded on his door, four even beats.
Slava straightened and rubbed his fingers into his neck and across his beard. There were a few gray hairs in it now. How long before he turned into an old man?
“Come in,” he called.
The narrow door to his chamber opened to reveal a guard in navy uniform with a red breast and gold buttons. The guard nodded once before saying, “His Imperial Majesty requests your presence in his study.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I will come,” Slava said, and the guard departed, leaving the door open. They always did that. With a muted sigh, Slava collected the dolls and stashed them in a mahogany chest of drawers near the window. Straightening his clothes and smoothing his beard, he made the trek through the palace to Tsar Nicholas II’s study.
Light poured in through the windows lining the corridors of Alexander Palace, reflected by the newly fallen snow that encased everything outside—the grounds, the fence posts, the trees. The calendar promised winter would end soon, but recent snowfalls had been heavy and unyielding. While beautiful to behold, the relentless chill would only drive more peasants to the palace gates. Winter made even the best people desperate.
Slava reached the study, which had a single guard posted outside its door. They exchanged no words, but the guard knocked softly on the door before opening it and announcing, “The mysticist, Slava Barinov.” He stood back and let Slava pass.
The study was not a terribly large room, in part because Nicholas had packed it with so much. The tsar sat behind a desk lined with picture frames, the most recent displaying his new wife. The wall beside him was packed with bookshelves, atop which sat numerous clocks telling him the times of cities across Russia and Europe. Above those hung yet more frames, some with photos, some with art.
Soft sofas and chairs crowded around the desk. Slava saw Zhakar Kharzin, the other mysticist in Nicholas’s employ. He was close in age to Slava, but had been working for the royal family for far less time. As such, he fancied himself Slava’s rival and had become a thorn in Slava’s boot. Closer to the door sat the recently appointed minister of defense and the governor of St. Petersburg. The latter shifted uneasily in his chair, his eyes shooting back and forth between Kharzin and Slava. It was a familiar reaction—many members of the orthodoxy considered mystics to be devil workers.
Despite the announcement, the conversation within went on uninterrupted. Slava took the seat closest to the door, which had the added benefit of being farthest from Kharzin.
“Can we borrow more from France?” Nicholas asked, tapping a pen against a piece of parchment on his desk, leaving an array of ink splats in the paper’s corner. He was anxious.