The Fifth Doll(6)

A thump outside elicited a muted shriek in Matrona’s throat and an eager cry from the kite. Her gaze instantly fixed on the closest window, and the impropriety of the situation hit her like a bucketful of cold water. What was she doing, wandering around inside another villager’s house like this? Touching his things, however odd or fascinating they may be?

Was Slava home?

Matrona hurriedly set down her father’s doll and rushed from the room, through the kitchen and around the chest of drawers, past the stairs and out the front door. She heard the nickering of a horse behind the house, but she ran over the wild grasses and back onto the path, sprinting until she felt the wood at her back. Had he indeed returned home, Slava would not see her now.

She paused to catch her breath. Perhaps it had been foolish to run. She simply could have explained herself, couldn’t she have? She’d only meant to return the brush . . .

It was those dolls . . . so strange and disarming. Matrona had never seen their like before. If Slava had made a habit of creating them, why hadn’t he ever shared his work, even at the annual fair? Were they meant to be secret? What lay inside them?

Wiping sweat from her brow, Matrona hurried down the path, wondering if Feodor still awaited her at the house. She prayed she hadn’t dawdled too badly, for her frazzled thoughts could not bear a scolding. You must be levelheaded and purposeful, she reminded herself. The jug would be made, she would do her chores, and she would forget about the odd collection inside Slava Barinov’s house.





Chapter 2


Matrona’s quick pace left her flushed and breathless by the time she reached her family’s izba. Feodor stood just outside the door, likely on his way home. Matrona forced her legs to slow and her spine to straighten. She tucked those stubborn stray hairs behind her ears.

Feodor looked up and cocked one of his thick brows. “You’ve made good time.”

“I tried to be swift,” she replied. She took deep, slow breaths to quiet her nerves. While she’d not seen a doll for Feodor on the tables, there had been so many, and all the ones she’d inspected had borne a likeness to someone in the village. She suspected he had one, too. Did its outfit match the shirt and vest he wore now, or perhaps the gray rubashka he often favored?

“‘He who hurries his footsteps errs,’” he said, quoting the Good Book.

They met on the path, Feodor leaning his weight onto one lean leg, taking a moment to look over her. His gaze felt like a cool breeze against naked skin, and Matrona tried not to shiver beneath it. Instead, she studied him back.

He was a fairly handsome man. While he did not have a strong jaw, he possessed full lips and a good nose. His brows were thick, and Roksana had teased her that their children would have the thickest eyebrows in the village, for Matrona’s own brows were dark and bold beneath her forehead. He had a narrow torso and waist, and his hips jutted to one side due to how he stood.

Her gaze returned to his face, to his lips. Feodor had not yet kissed her—his proposal had only been accompanied by a chaste kiss on the back of her hand. But Feodor was a reserved and modest man. Still, Matrona wondered when he would kiss her. Not now—the timing didn’t feel right, somehow. Perhaps at the altar. Surely by their wedding night. How strange to think of kissing a man and then giving herself to him only moments later. It sent moth wings up her arms and over her shoulders.

Matrona cleared her throat. “There are places where the Good Book commends haste.” She spoke softly, an effort to keep her defense mild. “It should be ready tomorrow. The jug,” she specified, clasping her hands together before her. She did look forward to learning to love Feodor—truly she did—but it would be so much easier to love him if he would love her first. Then again, perhaps he did, and simply chose not to show it. She had a hard time reading him—his conservative stances and cool blue eyes hid his thoughts.

The image of Jaska’s clay-stained hands on that cracked jug, turning it over with knowledge and a strange fondness, perhaps, burrowed into her mind. She blinked twice, snuffing it out like a wax-drowned candlewick.

“Your father,” Feodor said, dismissing the comment about the jug, “is he well?”

Matrona cocked her head. “Yes, of course. He was this morning. You saw him.”

A nod. “I did, but he seemed tense as I was leaving. Stressed, perhaps.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose it cannot be helped, with all he has to do and only a daughter to support him. Do see that he’s relieved today, hm?”

“I shall.”

Feodor offered her another closed-lip smile, another nod, and stepped off the path, heading southward toward his home. Matrona watched him go, measuring his stride, noting the cleanliness of his hands. Though he was a butcher, Matrona had never seen a drop of blood on him.

Despite herself, her mind wandered from blood to clay upon entering her home.

“There’s chores to be done.” Her mother didn’t look up from the brick oven and the growing fire in its belly. As though Matrona had forgotten. As though she ever forgot.

“Yes, Mama,” she replied, passing through the front room, down the hallway, and out the door to the small pasture that lay beyond the house. She liked to pretend it was larger and more verdant, with full fields of grass instead of weed-spotted dirt, but today the whitewashed fence surrounding the land seemed especially close. She saw her father out with one of the cows, checking its ears. He turned suddenly and smacked an open palm against the wooden fence multiple times, then shook his head. Matrona’s lips parted. Stressed, indeed.