The Fifth Doll(69)

Matrona nodded and rested Pavel’s doll at her feet. She looked over the village, its foliage still green, its homes seemingly normal save for the lack of wood smoke haloing the chimneys.

“Matrona.” There was tightness to Jaska’s voice. He breathed long and slow through his nose as he, too, looked out on the village.

Matrona rolled her lips together.

He remained silent for another moment before choosing his words. “Why help me?”

Her stomach fluttered. “You know why.”

“And you know my reasons. They’re not there because some doll spell put them into my head.”

“Jaska—”

“What I need,” he began, speaking each syllable with care, “is truth. Commitment.” When Matrona didn’t respond, he added, “Those things tend to be absent in my life.”

She kneaded her hands together. “I’ve never lied to you.”

“Are you still for Feodor”—he waved at the dolls—“after all of this is settled?”

Her stomach eased, and she let out a breath. “No. I can’t fool myself into thinking marriage with him is what I want. Not anymore.”

She glanced to the pile of dolls, half-expecting Feodor’s to rise above them.

Jaska’s voice was smooth as butter and pitched as gently as a night breeze. “What do you want?”

She looked at him, at the intensity in his dark eyes. Dark as midnight, as river silt, as sin.

He repeated himself: “What do you want?”

Matrona shook her head. “You’re as foolish as the rest of them if you don’t know.”

“I need to hear it.”

“You, Jaska.”

His lip quirked just enough to show his one-sided dimple. He leaned forward and kissed the tip of her nose; Matrona lifted her chin to kiss his lips. Despite the wrongness of everything around her, the warmth of his skin felt right.

They took in the village as though it were a sunset, as though it would change if they waited long enough, but nothing disturbed the view save for the occasional growl from beneath the soil. Matrona’s thoughts gradually turned back to the dolls.

“Will we open them all?”

“Hm?”

“The fourth dolls. Most of the people here will have years of memories of Russia. They might be grateful for what Slava did, but they may also be angry. Others will be confused.”

Jaska frowned and leaned back against the steps. “You’re worried about a mob.”

A vague memory of shouting surfaced in Matrona’s mind. A cold street, her mother and herself pressed under an eave. Marching men and women in tattered clothing that almost matched the gray cast of the sky.

“Matrona?”

“What if he’s right?” she asked, looking over the dolls. “What if he did save us?”

But Jaska shook his head. “He’s wrong.”

“How do you know? You have no memories of our true home.”

“Because he made us forget.”

He looked at her, his dark eyes clear and resolute. He held his brother Viktor’s doll in his hands. “If we would have welcomed this place, he wouldn’t have made us forget the other.”

Matrona pulled from his gaze and peered out over the village. “I suppose you’re right. I don’t remember enough of Russia to know for certain. I wish I did.”

Leaning over, he pressed a kiss to her temple. The contact made her shiver. The ground rumbled in response.

“They’ll know the truth.” He tipped his head toward Pavel’s doll. “Or at least he will.”

Matrona lifted the doll so that its eyes were level with her own. “I’m praying he’ll have some insight.”

“Even I’ll pray for that.”

A smile tugged on Matrona’s lips. She lowered Pavel’s doll, rested it against her knees. She heard Roksana singing another verse of her lullaby inside the house.

“Jaska?”

“Hm?”

“What if Russia no longer exists? What if it’s only a memory?” She frowned, looking at the wooden caricatures of her family and friends. “What if we don’t exist?”

Jaska was quiet a long moment. Matrona listened to his breathing.

“Then I guess he’s right.”

“Who?”

“Slava. If we only exist in his world, then he really is our god.”

A chill spiked Matrona’s heart at the sentiment. She pressed her lips together.

“Matrona?”

She shook her head. “Even if it were true, Slava is one god I will never believe in.” She glanced to the pile of dolls. “And it will be no secret.”





Chapter 22


Nothing changed in the two days that followed. The earth rumbled, even shook at times. The village flashed unpredictably, showing dark houses far smaller than the village izbas. Gray skies, light skies, snow spotting the ground. The images never stayed long enough for Matrona to get a good look. Through it all, the dolls remained dolls, and the mad remained mad.

Two days. Matrona was willing to risk it. She only hoped Pavel was willing, too.

She left Roksana sleeping and Olia pretending to knit and stepped outside, where Jaska guarded the dolls from both the madwomen and the supernatural. He didn’t ask Matrona what she was doing—perhaps it was clear on her face. Maybe he’d even expected her.