The Fifth Doll(9)

“I’m sure we can arrange to keep them safe,” she tried.

But Slava shook his head and let out a long breath, weariness settling onto him like an iron cloak. In the corner, Pamyat ruffled his feathers. “You do not understand.”

Matrona did not reply.

Slava turned her father’s doll over in his hands and scanned his similar creations. “They are connected, these dolls and the people in this village. You know that, don’t you, Matrona? That is why you came back.”

Matrona’s mouth went dry. “I—I came to return a paintbrush—”

“No one else in the village has seen this room . . . at least none of whom I’m aware,” he continued. “If someone else has come, they did a much better job of covering their tracks.” His eyes twinkled, but his voice was a little too cool to be jesting. He held up the doll in his hands so Matrona could again see how its halves didn’t align. It felt as if the floor of the room had tilted, making Slava’s end higher than hers, as if his body grew until it pressed against the walls and ceiling, while hers shrank into the grooves of the floorboards.

Hugging herself to banish a sudden chill in her chest, Matrona retreated two steps. “My father has been acting strangely. Unwell. Not at all himself. It began after I . . . looked at your dolls.”

“Hmm,” Slava grumbled in agreement. “Because the doll is connected to him, and you have altered it. But perhaps it’s a blessing that you’ve seen this place. I need a replacement, and choosing one has proved . . . difficult.” He rubbed his fingers over his beard. “This makes it easier.” He chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought you bold enough to enter . . . but it’s my fault for not locking the door.”

His words tickled in Matrona’s ears. “Lock? What’s a lock?”

Pamyat clicked deep in his throat.

“Never mind that.” Slava waved his hand. A simple dismissal—Matrona was so very used to that. “I will not be here forever, no matter what I do. You will care for the dolls in my absence, Matrona. You will watch over them, guard them, and create them.”

The feathers on Pamyat’s neck rose. The kite lowered his head, his marble-round eyes focused on Matrona.

Create? Her thoughts repeated, and she took another step back, eyeing the kite. Her shoulder hit one of the shelves stacked with dolls. “I know nothing of woodworking—”

“It doesn’t matter. I will teach you.”

“Slava, Tradesman,” she tried, sounding out each word carefully, working to not let her voice quake, “I am a simple dairymaid, soon to be married. I cannot take on a new trade—”

“You can, and you will,” he interrupted, blue eyes sharpening. He held up her father’s doll so that the painted eyes looked directly into hers. “You’ve stumbled on something greater than yourself, Matrona. My life’s work. I need you, and you will comply, for I cannot trust you if you don’t.”

Matrona eyed the open door. He was mad. She couldn’t—

Pamyat shrieked, the noise amplified by the close walls. Matrona nearly choked on her own tongue.

“I’ll not set him right,” Slava added, and the words pulled her attention back to his face. Back to the doll he held. Slava grasped the upper and lower halves in his large, calloused hands, but did not twist them one way or another. Instead, he said, “I’ll not set him right, and I’ll see that you don’t, either. He’ll not be well unless he’s straightened out, don’t you see?”

Matrona’s tongue traced the backs of her teeth, seeking moisture, finding none. She nodded. She understood.

Slava smiled. “Good.” Then, with a sharp, squeaking twist, he shifted the halves of the doll. Matrona yelped, but Slava had only righted the halves so that her father’s shirt buttons fell in a single, even row and his sleeves connected flawlessly with his pale-painted hands.

Slava set the doll on the table, then shifted backward to select Matrona’s doll.

“Please don’t,” she whispered.

“Oh, I won’t do anything.” Slava’s tone was so casual, she could hardly believe he’d just threatened her with her father’s well-being, however mystical in nature. “This, you must do. You cannot understand me and my creations without finding your center, Matrona.”

The chill in her chest abated somewhat. “My center?”

He held the doll out to her, and Matrona stared into the glazed face of her miniature.

“You must open your doll.”





Chapter 4


The tips of Matrona’s fingers tingled on the verge of numbness as she took her doll from Slava’s hands. In the moment it seemed heavier than her father’s, yet also too small, too fragile. A caricature of her face looked up at her, unblinking. Two salmon-colored circles highlighted her cheeks. The red kokoshnik, she realized, was one she had worn to fairs and church services as an adolescent and had since disposed of. The painted eyelashes were so fine, Matrona could not comprehend how any hand, especially old Slava’s, could have painted them.

Instantly Matrona thought of her father’s crazed behavior, all due to his doll’s misalignment. If such a small thing could cause a grown man to stutter and speak nonsense and bang his head against walls, what could opening this doll do to her?