The Fifth Doll(70)

Only two days. Please don’t be mad, she prayed, clutching Pavel’s small fifth doll in her fist. She knelt beside Jaska and picked up the carpenter’s layered doll and opened the first layer. Condemned by your people.

Opened the second. Condemned by yourself.

Opened the third. To see who you were.

Opened the fourth. To see who you could become. Is that the riddle, Slava?

Like hers and Jaska’s, the fourth doll’s center was hollow. She slipped Pavel’s fifth doll inside, then carefully pieced together the layers. Once the paint had lined up on the outermost doll, the seam vanished beneath her hands just as Jaska’s had done.

Jaska started; Matrona stood and spun around, searching—

Pavel Zotov knelt just beside the portico, cradling his head in one hand. His dark hair was tied back in its customary tail, and he wore a dark kosovorotka and faded gray slacks. He groaned. The sensation of rain and falling tickled Matrona, and her doll-sight revealed a dusting of bewilderment in this man, a desire for freedom, and a blazing fire of leadership. There was no release of secrets from the opening of the first doll. Had the Nazad nullified that consequence?

Would it take away his memories, too?

“Pavel?” Matrona whispered, taking a tentative step toward him. Jaska found his feet and put a protective shoulder in front of her. “Pavel, are you . . . well?”

“Feel like someone’s taken a saw to my head,” he said. “I—”

He was still as an oak trunk, silent as a candle. Slowly he lifted his head, wincing against the sunlight. He looked at Jaska first, then Matrona. The village spread out before them. Slava’s house behind. His knees creaked as he stood, and his eyes narrowed.

“What has he done to me?” he asked, gazing back at the village. “What has that bastard done?”

“You remember.” The words were a breath of relief on her lips.

Pavel turned toward her. “Remember . . . yes, I remember. This isn’t . . . How did I not know this isn’t where I’m supposed to be?”

He reached out for one of the house’s columns and leaned against it, again pressing a palm to his forehead. “Alena, Luka . . . he brought them, too. And Oleg. All of them . . .”

“I estimate it’s been about two decades, Pavel.” Matrona tried to keep her voice soft, as though it would lessen the blow of the words. “He’s trapped us inside dolls of our likenesses, starting with you. It began as an attempt to stop a revolt, but then the tsar turned on him. He made this place his refuge, it seems. Only, he trapped all of us here with him.”

Pavel shook his head, winced. “How do you know this?”

“I’ve seen it. Slava tried to make me his protégé.”

Pavel glanced to the pile of dolls for the first time. His features slackened.

Jaska said, “You may be feeling ill. We rushed your release.”

“My what?”

Matrona glanced at Jaska. “Let’s get you some water, and a chair. I’ll explain everything.”



The bowl of cigar ash rattled atop the side table as the earth growled beneath the house.

Pavel waited for the grumbling to cease before speaking. “That’s one of the quakes you mentioned?”

Matrona nodded.

Pavel tapped his fingers on the arm of a wicker chair. Olia occupied the plush chair Slava favored. She had tuned out the conversation, mindlessly tying lengths of yarn into various knots. Jaska had situated himself on the floor, and Matrona sat on the edge of the wooden armchair. Pavel looked at the ceiling. Matrona wondered if he was merely thinking, or if he was imagining his slumbering daughter-in-law above, or his lost grandson. Though he hadn’t said as much, Matrona could see from his hardened expression that he would never forgive the tradesman for what had become of his family.

Pavel stood and glanced around the room. A frown carved his mouth as he stepped into the kitchen.

“Pavel?” Jaska asked, following him. Matrona rose from her chair and did the same.

Pavel searched through Slava’s cupboard until he found a small knife block. A dry chuckle erupted from his throat when he brought it out to the table. “I made this.”

Jaska held out a hand as though Pavel had become a wild boar. “It’s all right, we’ll—”

“I’ve still got my mind,” Pavel snapped, pulling a knife from the block. He glanced to Matrona, and though anger toughened his brow, she saw clarity in his eyes. She nodded to Jaska, who relaxed.

Turning to the nearest wall, Pavel stabbed the knife into the wood.

Matrona gasped. Despite the sunshine that still poured down on the village, thunder boomed in the sky over the house. She stared out the window, confused. Did harming the house hurt Slava, or the village itself?

“Hmm.” He ripped the blade free. He stabbed it again, and the earth bucked hard enough to throw off Matrona’s balance. She collided into Jaska, who grabbed the edge of the table to stay upright.

Pavel hefted the knife a third time.

“Enough of that!” Matrona snapped. “Yes, it works. I told you as much. You’ll topple the roof onto our heads with your experiments.” She didn’t understand the spells on the house. Was this place connected to Slava the same way Matrona’s doll was to her? It didn’t look like him, so surely the sorcery was beyond her comprehension. Yet when Matrona had stabbed the wall with the chisel, Slava’s manipulation of her ceased. Because she had hurt him back, or because she had risked damaging this small world he created?