There was nothing special about a brush of sleeves, of course. What she needed was something more. Something to make her skin tingle or her chest flutter.
Pinching her lips to keep from frowning, Matrona went on to serve her family and lastly herself before placing the pot on the brick beside the cook fire. In her mind, she prayed.
Please let him touch me before he leaves, she thought, blinking again, swallowing the soreness rising in her throat. Let him hold my hand, kiss my cheek, anything.
He had agreed to the marriage, even after the mishaps with Slava’s doll. He was the one who had pursued the match in the first place. Didn’t he want her?
Matrona returned to her place at the table, but found her appetite gone. She stirred the pork bits on her plate and glanced at Feodor. Why can’t you love me?
Desperation burned her belly raw, but she wasn’t going to do this, not here, not now. Lord help me, I’m so tired of crying.
She plastered on her best practiced smile throughout the rest of the meal, and when the Popovs took their leave, she walked them from the izba and onto the path. With a gentle nod, Feodor said his good-bye and headed for Pavel’s carpentry, his skin never once coming in contact with hers.
Matrona drew in a shuddering breath and noticed Roksana coming down the same path, a blue sarafan dancing about her pregnant frame. It almost matched the shade of the darkening sky . . . which reminded Matrona of her promise to Jaska. Feodor had weighed down her thoughts so much, she’d nearly forgotten.
She had to leave soon. She had to sneak into Slava’s home, again.
But what if she’d been mistaken about the satchel and bridle? What if the tradesman had merely returned from a trip? Surely if his horse and wagon were there, Jaska wouldn’t insist on going through with their mad plan.
It suddenly occurred to her that someone could see them together in the night, just as she’d seen Jaska’s brother with a village girl. She would never be able to explain it away enough to—
“Matrona!” Roksana called, a wide smile painting her mouth. She drew closer. “Feodor and Oleg at your home? For dinner? Things are going well, then?”
Matrona forced herself to focus on her dear friend, but her mind fluttered like moths near a candle. “I, uh, yes. Well.”
“Don’t tell me everything at once.” A line formed between Roksana’s eyebrows. “I’ve barely seen or spoken to you lately. I’ve been worried. Pavel tells me you came by looking for me the other day.”
Matrona blinked, trying to process the new information as it piled onto the clutter of Feodor, Jaska, and Slava. Roksana, yes. To hide from Slava.
“Yes,” she answered, glancing at the sky. Why was it darkening so quickly? She turned to look at the house, but neither of her parents had lingered in the doorway. “But I’m fine now.”
“Fine now?” Roksana repeated, grasping Matrona’s fingers to engage her attention. “You weren’t fine before? Are you still ill?”
“No, I was just . . . visiting.”
“We have time to visit now.” She smiled. “Luka ran over to the Grankins’, so he’ll be by in a bit to fetch me—”
Matrona rubbed her forehead. “Oh, Roksana, I . . . I’m sorry. I can’t talk now.”
The line between her friend’s brows deepened. “Why ever not? Your guests just left, and we have a lot to talk about. Do you and Feodor have a date set yet? Have you tried on the dress—”
“I have something to do. Something personal.” Her tongue felt too loose. Where was that easy lying when she needed it? “Yes, we have a date. Two weeks from today. And no, I haven’t tried the dress on yet.”
“Not yet! What if it needs a lot of tailoring? What are you waiting for?” Roksana tipped her head to one side. “Are you sure you’re feeling well?” She lifted her hand to check Matrona’s forehead.
Matrona stepped back to avoid the touch. Tried to smile. “Yes, I’m fine. I’ll find you tomorrow and we’ll catch up. There’s no school, right?”
Roksana frowned. “You’ve been so strange lately.” She folded her arms. “You used to tell me everything.”
“I will, I will!” she countered, trying to force enthusiasm into her voice. “But it’s getting dark and I need . . . to do something. Please, tomorrow.”
Roksana’s eyes narrowed, but she nodded her consent, and Matrona took the gesture as permission to return inside, where she changed into the darkest sarafan she had. The palms of her hands perspired as she listened to her parents shuffle about while they prepared for bed. Matrona lit a candle and then grabbed a comb and unbraided her hair, the long black locks falling in waves over her shoulders. She plaited it in two tails, one over each shoulder, as Roksana wore hers, then found an old scarf to wear over her head. If she changed her silhouette, perhaps she would be less recognizable in the dark. She checked her pockets to ensure they were empty—it would bring bad fortune to take more out of the house than needed at night, and Matrona wanted to secure as much luck as possible.
A shifting of darkness at the window caught the corner of her eye; she turned, but saw nothing in the gap between her curtains. The wood had devoured the last wisps of twilight. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she tugged the curtains completely closed. Then she blew out her candle, bathing herself in darkness, and slid it and a single match into her pocket.
Listening for her parents and hearing their low voices in their bedroom, Matrona slipped into the hallway. She winced when a floorboard creaked under her heel and then quickened her step, again waiting until she was in the pasture to put on her shoes. Traveling this path in stealth had become all too familiar to her.
She slinked out the gate, spying windows in the village alight with candles and lamps. One extinguished under her gaze. She kept her distance from the main path, walking just close enough to follow it. She heard two men talking to each other on a porch; one laughed heartily. Matrona eyed the sky, the slim band of light over the wood summoning the rising moon. She was late. Her steps moved in time with her heartbeat, quick and sharp.
A few more windows darkened as she pulled away from the thickest grouping of the izbas and moved toward the north face of the wood. Cricket song filled the quiet space between each breath. The moon peeked over the treetops, and in its light Matrona saw the edge of Slava’s roof. No light emanated from his home. A good sign, yet Matrona’s nerves stung her limbs like hornets.
Her steps slowed as she neared the house. What if Slava lingered inside? What if he saw her? Her mind fumbled for an excuse—
A hand on her elbow shot her heart out of her chest. She spun and smacked her open palm into her assailant’s chest—
“Matrona!” the shadow whispered, letting her go. “It’s me!”
Matrona stepped back, trying to catch her breath. “Jaska?”
He rubbed his chest, the rising moon glinting off his teeth. “Quite an arm you’ve got.”
She adjusted her head scarf. “A butter churn will do that.”
He chuckled deep in his throat. The sound faded. “You were right; his horse and wagon are gone. The house is empty.”
“Except for the kite.”
“Kite?”
“His pet.” The darkness swallowed Jaska, so there was no telling if his expression changed. “How long have you been here?”
“Since twilight. I thought . . . I wondered if you’d changed your mind.”
“I promised.”
“You’re a woman of your word.” His tone softened in a way that rose gooseflesh on Matrona’s arms. Just the cool of night, she told herself. Certainly there wasn’t any hidden meaning in Jaska’s words or the way he’d said them.
She swallowed, the walls of her throat feeling too thick.
Perhaps sensing her hesitation, Jaska said, “I’m sorry . . . If you tell me where the room is—”
“No, I’ll go. It’ll be quicker that way.” Besides, she couldn’t explain all the rules of the dolls to him now, and she couldn’t trust him to leave everything behin
d exactly as he’d found it. Scanning the path behind her and finding it empty, Matrona crept toward the house, Jaska falling in step beside her.
“Will they know you’re missing?” he asked. “Your parents.”
“I don’t know. I hope not. If they find out, I’ll tell them a cow escaped or something.”
She could feel his grin beside her like a flame. It gave her courage. Halting, she turned to him. “Stay here.”
He nodded, stepping into a black shadow beside the house.
Matrona licked her lips. “You know what it will do, don’t you?”
“Will it be the same?” he asked. “As . . . yours?”
Matrona shocked herself by not blushing at the question, at the reminder of how her most guarded secret had spread through their village like the seeds of a weed. She answered honestly. “I don’t know. I assume so.”
He hesitated only a second, but it was long enough for Matrona to notice. “I suppose we’ll see.”
She nodded, once, and hurried to Slava’s front door. Every footstep in the grass sounded like shattering ceramic, and the rays of the moon, so faint and gentle, became blazing suns. She reached the portico and spun around, pulling her scarf close, searching the village for onlookers. Her breath caught at the sight of movement close to the wood, but as she stared into the darkness, she saw only the rustling of leaves in the soft breeze.
She hurried to the door. The sooner this was done, the better.
Grasping the handle, Matrona pushed the door open, smelling wood and the faint traces of Slava’s cigars. She slipped into the entry hall, shutting the door behind her, the squeaking of its hinges rattling her as much as a baby’s cry. She listened for movement within the house, heard none. No light peeked under any doorways or down the staircase.
She hurried through the front room, from which the satchel and bridle had been taken. The toe of her shoe caught on a chair leg, and Matrona paused just long enough to ensure the furniture was positioned exactly how Slava had left it, before cutting through the kitchen and down the carpeted hallway.
Away from the windows, Matrona pulled her candle from her pocket and tugged her sleeve around her fingers to keep the melting wax off her skin. She lit it, the bright burst of flame marring her sight with brown spots. Through the pulse thumping in her ears, she heard the rustle of feathers.
She opened the door to the room of dolls. The candlelight reflected off Pamyat’s yellow eyes as the bird hunched his wings, opening his beak and hissing. The bloody skin of a rat hung from one of his talons.
“Hush,” Matrona snapped at it, the word sounding like her own hiss. “Does he ever let you out of this room?”
The kite’s wings didn’t settle, and his beak remained open, threatening, but he stayed on his perch. Perhaps the close walls and ceiling hindered him from attacking her, but Matrona didn’t want to stay long enough to test the theory.
She knew exactly where Jaska’s doll lay, as Slava never moved it. She hurried over and picked it up, careful not to bump any other dolls. Her eyes looked over it quickly. Its likeness was a flat painting, and yet it looked remarkably like Jaska, down to the unkemptness of his hair.
Her gaze fluttered to the other dolls. The gloss of Nastasya Kalagin’s green eyes reflected the candlelight. What secrets did she have? Or Lenore Demidov beside her, who had sneered so righteously when Matrona’s own secrets spilled into the village. Would Lenore purse her lips and turn up her nose if her secrets became common knowledge? Pavel and Oleg had roused Jaska’s suspicions. What could they have to hide?
Yet that would make her just like Slava, wouldn’t it? Playing with these people as if they were the very dolls the tradesman had made them out to be, toying with them against their wills. Subjecting them to the same torment Matrona herself had suffered.
The candlelight flickered as she leaned toward the dolls. The painted face of Feodor caught her attention. Her stomach tightened as she met the doll’s gaze. What did he really think of her, and of their betrothal? She could find out. All it would take was one twist, one pull. Yet as Matrona stared into the blue gaze of the doll, she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Pamyat hissed. Matrona shook her head. Sticking the unlit end of the candle in her mouth, she grabbed both halves of Jaska’s doll and popped them apart.
A moment of silence descended on the room, quieting even Pamyat.
A creak in the hallway shot a chill of terror through Matrona’s spine. Slava wasn’t home. He couldn’t be. Had Jaska followed her in? Fumbling with the doll, she pulled the candle from her mouth and blew it out. The smoke from the wick tickled her nostrils.
She waited, listening. Heard nothing more.
Using the dim moonlight from the high window as a guide, Matrona shoved the pieces of Jaska’s doll back together, lining them up as best she could, and then set the doll back in its designated place on the table. Squatting, she checked the floor for beads of wax and found none.
She peeked into the hallway, seeing nothing but ordinary shadows. She rushed back down it. When she reached the front door, she nearly threw it open in her eagerness to get outside. She stumbled onto the portico and pulled the door shut behind her.
And just like that, like a lantern lit within her mind, she knew.
All his secrets.
They sprouted in her mind like a wild garden: Playing cruel pranks on neighbors after his mother lost her mind. Crying into his pillow so his siblings wouldn’t hear. Trying to persuade his mother to be sane again.
Matrona’s eyes widened as more and more secrets bubbled up. Finding Nastasya Kalagin on a spread of blankets in the basement, his brother Viktor—his married brother, Viktor—writhing on top of her. Viktor swearing him to secrecy. Stealing sausages hanging in the butchery because Oleg Popov wouldn’t give his “detestable” family their share.
Matrona rested a hand against one of the portico’s twisting columns to steady herself. Small secrets, childhood fibs and the like, speckled her thoughts. Then a new flower bloomed, and Matrona caught her breath; Jaska Maysak didn’t believe in God.
She pushed off the column and hurried down the steps of the porch. Jaska came to church every Voskresen’ye, yet it was only for show. That secret alone would ostracize him from the village. The spell of the doll held back the reasons for his disbelief, but Matrona’s heart ached for him and the judgments he would face come morning.
More secrets, ones Matrona already knew—his distrust of Pavel and Oleg, of Slava.
But as Matrona came around the side of the house, the spell revealed a secret she had not been expecting.
What Jaska thought of her.
Chapter 12
Matrona froze in her steps as truths unfolded in her mind. She wavered on her feet.
Jaska hadn’t thought anything special about her until that day all her secrets filled his head, nestling there as if he’d always known them. The day he learned Matrona Vitsin desired him and hated herself for it.
Seeing her later, on the path to the butchery, he had looked at her differently. Noticed her. Matrona was beautiful, wasn’t she?
Over the last week, Jaska’s thoughts had turned and turned, kneaded like bread dough, and as Matrona peered into the shadows where he hid, she knew.
He wanted her, too.
Air expelled from her lungs, and she struggled to breathe it back in. Her entire body felt light. Her skin tingled. Her mouth dried. Her blood . . .
A vision born of the third doll crossed her mind: lightning. That’s how she felt. Like it flashed relentlessly inside her.
She was wanted—and by him, no less. She had never experienced a sensation like this.
A voice that sounded too similar to the berating voice awakened by the second doll whispered, You marry in two weeks, you wretched girl.
But Feodor didn’t truly want her. Not like this. Not the way she so desperately needed to be wanted.
“Matrona?”
His voice sounded like pine needles caught on the wind.
He shifted from the darkness, letting a sliver of moonlight catch his features.
Matrona forced breath into her lungs. They ached like a deep bruise.
“Did you find it?” he asked.
But of course—Matrona had felt nothing after opening her first doll. She’d learned of its consequences secondhand.
She stared at him without speaking. Could this be some sort of trick? Perhaps Slava had done something to Jaska’s doll.
“Matrona?” he asked again.
She nodded, her neck stiff. “Yes.” Her voice poured like sand from her tongue, rough and broken. She rubbed her throat with her fingertips. “It’s done.”
“You’re . . . sure?” He sounded unconvinced.
She worked up enough moisture to swallow. “I—I’m sure.”
He didn’t respond immediately, only watched her. What did he expect her to say? Do you really feel that way? Even if it were true, could his feelings really be genuine? And what if Matrona had misread his thoughts somehow? Would Jaska laugh at her? His denial would crush her.
Instead, she said, “I know about . . . Viktor.”
He pulled back from her, breaking their gaze, and startled her by cursing. The word sounded like one of Pamyat’s hisses.
Running a hand through his hair, he asked, “They’ll all know, won’t they?”
The sound of rustling—footsteps?—touched Matrona’s ears. Likely her imagination again, but in a flash of boldness, she grabbed Jaska’s hand and pulled him away from Slava’s extravagant home. Only when they reached the edge of the wood did she say, “We shouldn’t linger here.”
Coming to her senses, she dropped Jaska’s hand like a match burned through. Her insides felt like tumbling gravel. If only she could hear his thoughts now. What she wouldn’t do for an assurance, or even a negation before her hopes climbed too high.
“What else do you know?”
The gravel sucked into her core, weighing it down, yet her lips felt as insubstantial as water when she stuttered, “I—I suppose everything.”
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