The Fifth Doll(67)

She tasted blood when she bit down on a scream, her torso wrenching as though her legs were twisting one way and her shoulders another. She fell to the floor again, head spinning.

In the torrent she saw the tiny form of Roksana’s child. Heard the echo of Roksana’s cries.

Matrona dragged herself through the kitchen and toppled down the short steps into the hallway. Clawed her way to the doll room.

Sharpness dug into her hips like an axe striking, and Matrona found herself suddenly waking up—her body half in the doll room, a streak of vomit staining the carpet. Though her head weighed as if an anvil, she forced it up, trying to focus on the spinning tables of dolls before her. She searched for the red sarafan. Dolls hit the floor as she struggled to pull herself upright.

Ribbons of fire sliced through her, dropping her back to the floor. She was underwater, unable to swim, unable to tell up from down. She tried to reach for something to balance her, to steady her, to keep her alert—

Her hand brushed a smooth rod. She clasped it. Though her vision was a whirling blur of colors, she recognized the chisel.

As her body began to pull apart, a single thought stuck into Matrona’s mind: if Slava could hurt her with her doll, maybe she could hurt him with his.

Rolling onto her back, Matrona gripped the chisel and flung it sideways. The thud of the blade striking the wall reverberated up her arm.

Her vision cleared, and the house quaked.

Matrona gasped and turned toward the wall, blinking away tears. There was a small hole in the wall where the chisel had struck.

The ring around her middle blazed again. Screaming, Matrona took the chisel in both hands and dug it into the wall, pushing the blade as far as her trembling arms could. The floor bucked beneath her, knocking more dolls to the floor. A sudden wind rammed the window, as though the chisel had attacked the air and earth and not the tradesman at all.

The ring vanished. Sucking in a deep breath, Matrona scrambled to her feet, her body little-more substantial than a rag doll. She grabbed the doll wearing her face and ran back through the house until she stumbled past the portico and fell to the ground. Her shoulders heaved with every breath. Her muscles stayed taut in anticipation of the next wave of pain. It didn’t come.

Swift footsteps neared her, and a shadow blotted out the sun.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Jaska’s voice engulfed her. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders, then clasped the sides of her face. “Matrona?”

She looked up into his dark eyes. Over his shoulder, she saw Olia a ways off, studying them.

“The dolls,” she croaked. “We have to get them out of the house.”

Jaska looked down at the doll Matrona held in her hand. He didn’t question her, didn’t hesitate. Springing to his feet, he dashed into the tradesman’s house, returning seconds later with an armful of dolls. He dumped them onto the earth beside Matrona and darted back for the second load.

Matrona forced herself to stand and rubbed at her middle. Olia neared, a bouquet of weeds clenched in one hand.

“Stay here,” Matrona rasped to the older woman. Jaska dumped more dolls beside Matrona, and when he ran back into the house, she followed. She stepped in the kitchen to pocket Feodor’s, Galina’s, and her parents’ fifth dolls before hurrying into the doll room after Jaska and pulling more villagers from the shelves. She picked up her hem to make a bowl out of her skirt so she could carry more.

She brought them outside and dumped them beside Jaska’s final load.

The village flashed gray before her eyes, dark houses caught in the torrent of a snowstorm.





Chapter 21


The vision lasted only a moment, punctuated by Olia’s scream. Then all was as before, green and grassy, the sun shining in a wood-grain-patterned sky.

Jaska’s face had gone pale. “Did you see . . . ?”

Matrona nodded.

Olia dropped into a crouch. “We’ll lose our toes, we’ll lose our toes. No sheep saved. No wool, no socks.”

Jaska looked at his mother, his shoulders stiff. “Was that . . . Russia?”

Matrona shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember enough of it.”

The ground trembled under their feet, as if a great beast moved beneath it. Jaska placed a hand on Matrona’s shoulder as though to steady her—or himself.

“I think Slava can still reach us through the dolls,” she said once the earth had settled. “I saw him.”

“You did? Where?”

She explained—the story became so simple when related through words. Shorter and easier than it had been to live it. She explained the house as a doll, the Nazad, the seam printing itself into her middle. Jaska paled at that last part.

“So I took the doll out, and it stopped,” she finished. “And the quaking . . . it started with the chisel.”

“You’re all right?”

She nodded.

He licked his lips. “Will it stop?”

She shrugged, and in return the ground grumbled.

Olia stood and began looking around, reminding Matrona of a bird. Jaska let his hand fall from her shoulder. “Removing the dolls from the house didn’t take us back to Russia. If we’re in the dolls, and the dolls are in that house, and that house is, supposedly, in Russia—”

“Then taking them out should bring us home.” Matrona gazed out to the village. “Maybe it almost did.”