Matrona massaged gooseflesh from her arms. “But Olia is married.”
“It did not matter to me.”
“How can you say that?” Matrona asked before she could think to bridle the words. “Do you think you can simply dismiss a marriage made under the eyes of God?”
Slava looked up at her, and there was a sting to his gaze. His lips pulled into a grin, but it was not a friendly one. “You think yourself fit to judge me, Matrona Vitsin? You are naïve now, but you will soon follow in my footsteps. You will soon understand.”
Matrona set her jaw.
Slava stood.
Scraping one last bit of boldness from her heart, Matrona said, “Afon—”
“Struggled to deal with his wife’s state of mind, yes. I never thought him a suitable match for her, but I pitied him and gave him the brewery after his incessant pleading for kvass.”
Slava growled deep in his throat. Matrona stared at the space between his eyes. It was the first she’d heard that Slava had managed the brewery before Afon, but that wasn’t what startled her.
It was Slava’s fault. Olia’s madness, Afon’s drunkenness. The core of the Maysaks’ hardships. The reason she had tended both Jaska and Kostya when they were younger. The reason so many saw them as . . . less.
Slava had done that to them . . . because of passion?
“All for your own self-interest,” she whispered.
Slava pressed his lips into a flat line and stared down Matrona with a gaze that mimicked Pamyat’s. A moment passed. “Now that we’ve had our heart-to-heart, you will return the other doll.”
Matrona furrowed her brows. “Other doll?”
“Roksana Zotov’s. I know you have it.”
But Matrona shook her head. “I don’t have it. I didn’t—”
Blood drained from her face.
Roksana’s skeptical gaze as Matrona excused herself last night. The feeling of watching eyes. The rustling near the wood, the creaking in the house.
The dream.
“By the saints,” she whispered. “She was here.”
Slava raised an eyebrow.
Matrona leapt from her chair and ran for the door. “She was here!” she shouted, and burst into the sunlight.
Roksana had followed her. She’d seen Jaska. She’d seen the dolls.
And she didn’t know what any of it meant.
Matrona barreled down the path from Slava’s home, grabbing fistfuls of her skirt to free her legs. Not the schoolhouse, not today. She would be home. She had to be home!
Please, God, please, she pleaded as the wind whipped a tear from her eye, please let me be wrong.
She ran off the path, taking the most direct route to the Zotov izba, oblivious to passersby, uncaring of what new rumors her behavior might start. She had to find Roksana. She had to find her before it was too late.
The izba came into sight, smoke puffing from its chimney. The carpentry behind it lay silent. Matrona ran up to the izba, not bothering to pause for the door. She burst through it, the wood slamming against the wall behind. Inside, Pavel and Roksana’s father looked up from a round rug where they sat, their hands clasped in prayer.
“Roksana,” Matrona huffed, shoulders heaving. “Where is Roksana?”
Roksana’s father dropped his gaze. Between her breaths, Matrona heard Alena sobbing in the next room.
Darting past the men, Matrona raced down the hall to the room Roksana and Luka shared. The door was ajar.
Inside, Luka sat on the edge of their bed, his head in his hands, while Roksana lay curled up on the floor, singing softly to herself as she played with the pieces of a painted nesting doll.
Chapter 13
Opened. Every single one of them.
Roksana lay on her side, her full belly resting on a rag rug, poking her fingers into the cavities of dolls painted to look just like her.
“I will tell you fairy tales,” she sang quietly, taking up the top of the third doll and spinning it on its head, “and sing you little songs. But you must slumber, with your small eyes closed. Bayushki bayu.”
“Roksana,” Matrona whispered, and Luka looked up from the bed. Matrona took a stiff, wooden step into the room, then another, another. She dropped to Roksana’s side and took the doll-half from her hand.
“Roksana?” she tried.
“The time will come,” Roksana sang, “when you will learn the soldier’s way of life.”
“Roksana.” Matrona took her friend’s shoulders and tried to get her to sit upright, but Roksana squeezed her eyes shut and fought Matrona’s hold as a little child would. Afraid of hurting her, Matrona pulled away. Roksana snatched the doll-half out of Matrona’s hand.
Her dreams of Roksana hadn’t been dreams at all; Matrona had merely been asleep when her friend opened the dolls. Most of Roksana’s secrets were mild, save her lies about Nastasya to Luka. Yet no one was likely to have much sympathy for Nastasya now that they knew the truth about her and Viktor. That’s what Matrona’s mother had meant when she mentioned Nastasya at breakfast.
“It’s no use,” Luka murmured behind her, his voice low and rumbling. “She’s been like that since the middle of the night. Won’t come to her senses, no matter how we . . .”
His voice choked, and Luka turned away. Tried to clear it.
“Sleep now, my dear little child,” Roksana sang. “Bayushki bayu.”
Tears pooled in Matrona’s eyes as Roksana started a new verse of the strange song—a song that nagged at Matrona, for its melody sounded strangely familiar. She tried to place it. Visions surfaced: Fat, falling snowflakes. An old rag rug and unpainted shutters. A little wood-burning stove in the corner.
Her head ached. What place was this?
When Luka spoke again, he startled her. “We don’t know where the dolls came from. She came home late, without saying where she’d been. Had that thing in her hands. Looks just like her.”
Matrona’s throat constricted. She blinked, and a tear traced the length of her cheek. “It does,” she croaked.
“Do you know?”
The words felt like an open palm across her face. Matrona shook her head, forcing the movements as though her neck had rusted.
But it couldn’t be. This couldn’t be.
“Roksana,” Matrona tried again, pushing the name through her shaking voice. “Roksana, listen to me.”
Roksana merely sang, “Sleep my angel, calmly, sweetly, bayushki bayu.”
Matrona grabbed her friend’s shoulders again, but this time she ignored Roksana’s attempts to break free. Shaking her, she shouted, “Roksana Zotov, listen to me! Wake up, you hear me?”
“It’s no use,” Luka whispered.
“This isn’t you! Roksana!”
Roksana wailed and threw her fists at Matrona, forcing her to let go. As soon as she did, Roksana collapsed to the floor and sobbed into the crook of her elbow.
“Matrona.”
The voice was Pavel’s. He stood in the doorway, his features long and heavy, blurred—no, that was from Matrona’s tears. She wiped her sleeve across her eyes, but they were wet again a heartbeat later.
Pavel sighed. “We’re waiting for the doctor.”
The doctor would do nothing for them, but Matrona couldn’t voice the words. She looked back to Roksana, more tears escaping her eyes.
You’re going to be a mother, she thought, for her throat had swollen too much to speak the sentiment. You can’t . . . be like this. What about your baby? Luka?
It was her fault, wasn’t it? If she hadn’t put off Roksana last night, if she hadn’t agreed to meet Jaska. If she’d never found that paintbrush . . .
Matrona shook her head. No. This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be Roksana’s fate, to be as mad as Olia Maysak, to break her family the way Jaska’s had been broken. Matrona wouldn’t stand for it.
Through her blurry vision, Matrona gathered the dolls, her fingers mimicking a feeding hen as she snatched them off the rug. Eight pieces. She looked for t
he fifth doll, for Slava had claimed there were five, but she couldn’t find it. Perhaps it was in the folds of Roksana’s dress or under the bed. Matrona fumbled with the dolls she had, clicking them back together, smallest to largest, lining up Slava’s delicate drawings as tears splashed over her hands. She squeezed the finished doll in her fingers. “Roksana.”
Roksana hummed the strange lullaby and picked at a thread in the rug.
Pavel groaned, a raw sound that stemmed from the base of his throat. “Perhaps . . . we could ask Galina to come.”
“And what has she done for her mother?” Luka scoffed, his voice cracking. “What could any of the Maysaks do?”
Not the Maysaks, Matrona thought, squeezing Roksana’s doll in a crushing grip. They’re not the ones who can fix this.
Matrona stood and fled the room, bumping her shoulder into Pavel as she went. Her ungraceful footfalls echoed in the hallway. She barely noticed Roksana’s father as she flew out the door, the sunlight burning colors into her tears.
Not the Maysaks. The words repeated in her mind as she choked on a sob, running over grass, cutting the quickest path to Slava’s home. She burst in through the front door, finding Slava just where she’d left him, though he had at last lit the cigar in his hand.
Matrona collapsed to her knees in front of him, offering up Roksana’s doll. “Fix it,” she cried. “Please, you have to fix it.”
Slava’s brows drew together. He put out his cigar in the center of a strangely decorated bowl atop the side table before taking the doll from Matrona’s hands.
He examined it for only a second before drawing his lips into a deep frown. “It’s been opened.”
“Every last one.” Her words were like a dying breeze.
Slava shook his head, and Matrona felt her heart dry and crumble within her.
“There’s nothing that can be done. Her mind is gone.”
“No!”
“If there were a cure, I would have used it.” On Olia, he didn’t say.
Matrona shook her head, studying his face, searching for . . . She didn’t know. Anything to give her hope. But the tradesman’s wrinkles had etched themselves deeper, and his eyes seemed sunken as he placed the doll beside his extinguished cigar, with a reverence that stabbed Matrona to her core.
“Please!” she begged, grabbing the fabric of his pants. “She’s supposed to be a mother. She’s my best friend. Please, you can’t—”
“You did not give her the doll?”
Matrona released Slava’s clothing and leaned back, the coldness returning to her limbs.
Slava nodded. “So she took it herself. Foolish girl. The damage she could have done—”
“You.” Matrona stood. “Why have you made them? The dolls. Why are they here? What do they mean?”
“You are learning—”
“I don’t want to learn, I want them gone!” Matrona shouted. Through the kitchen and down the hall, Pamyat echoed her anger. Matrona took a step back. “What have you done to us?”
“I have saved you!” Slava bellowed, rising from his chair. He seemed a giant, broad and tall, his presence spreading out like a sunset shadow.
“From what? I’ve seen no danger save what you keep in that room!” She thrust a pointed finger toward the kitchen. “What are you doing to us?” The sound of marching footsteps on the snow-hardened ground echoed in her head. She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples. “What have you put into my mind?”
Slava didn’t respond, merely fumed like fire on wet logs.
“You did this,” Matrona murmured. “You broke Roksana. You tore apart the Maysaks—”
Her hands flew from her head when Slava grabbed the collar of her dress and yanked her forward, close enough that his breath clouded over her face. “Without me,” he growled, “they would be starving and destitute, torn apart by war.”
Matrona blinked tears from her eyes. “War?” The word was foreign on her tongue.
Slava released her. “Get out. Wallow in your misery somewhere else.” He glowered. “But return tomorrow. We are not yet finished.”
Matrona scowled even as new tears formed in her eyes. Resisting the urge to spit at his feet, she turned her back on the sorcerer and fled, slamming the door in her wake.
The children all fled the glade when she arrived, sobbing and red-faced, the hem of her sarafan stained with mud. The cadence of their new rhyme still resonated in her ears:
Jaska’s rotted to the core
For Jaska has denied the Lord
His mum is mad, his dad is sad
His soul is very, very bad
It astonished her, how hungry the cruelty of children could be.
She sat on the large stone that rested just off center in the glade until her tears stopped save for an occasional sob. Then she picked herself up and limped her way through the wood, hugging herself despite the warmth of the noon hour.
It grated on her, the normalcy of the village. The unchanging birdsong, the insects’ chipper cadence. Laundry still hung on lines, and smoke puffed up from a handful of chimneys as it always had, up to a sky that still bore the faint patterning of wood grain in the places where the brilliance of the sun had not burned it away. By the way her neighbors walked about, did their chores, or chatted with one another, Matrona knew Roksana’s debilitation hadn’t become common knowledge. Yet.
She wiped her sleeve across her eyes again, surprised at how damp it had become. Surprised that she still had tears to cry, for her body felt like a corn husk left in the sun. In her mind’s eye, she imagined it baking and burning, crumbling to the path in a heap of ash to be swept away by the wind. Slava had been absolute, but Matrona couldn’t accept his words. Could sorcery not unravel sorcery?
She had little direction to follow, but she had to try. Something. Anything.
“Matrona.”
She looked up, her izba in the distance, and found Feodor not two paces from her on the path, several unplucked roosters, tied with strings, slung over his shoulder. There was a wool blanket under them, no doubt to keep his clothes clean.
She had nearly walked right past him.
“I need to talk to you,” the butcher said.
Matrona nodded numbly, looking toward her home. “My father mentioned visiting.”
“He has, but we are old enough to sort things for ourselves without our fathers’ by-your-leave. I’m sure I don’t need to enlighten you.”
Matrona eyed him.
Feodor sighed. “I never could have imagined the likes of Jaska Maysak being such a thorn in my side. I considered your issue with him resolved, but now, knowing he has motivation to . . . Matrona, have you been crying?”
Gritting her teeth, Matrona wiped her eyes once more.
Feodor frowned. “Whatever is wrong? But of course, you must be just as upset—”
“Feodor.” Her voice sounded too low. He stiffened, perhaps surprised at being interrupted. “I’m sorry to say that the only person I care about right now is Roksana, and I cannot pretend otherwise to ensure your satisfaction. Not now. Good day.”
Picking up her skirt, Matrona trudged past him to her home. Feodor would understand shortly, once the rumors ignited.
Relieved to see both her parents out in the pasture, Matrona went to her room, collected a few trinkets, and hiked back up to the Zotovs’ house.
This time she knocked, and Pavel let her in without comment.
Roksana had been moved to her bed, the headboard of which had been carved to depict a rearing stallion. The doctor examined her in much the same way he’d examined Matrona last week. Matrona waited outside the room as he spoke with Luka in a hushed voice. He left shaking his head, and Luka threw a fist into the wall before following, barely giving Matrona a second glance.
Matrona stepped into the room and climbed onto the bed beside Roksana, who stared at the ceiling with lidded eyes.
“Look at this.” Matrona offered her friend an embroidered handkerchief. “You gave this to me when
I turned twenty.”
Roksana pushed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “All the colors, all the colors,” she muttered.
“Roksana.”
She shook her head and rolled onto her side, her belly pressing into Matrona. “Too big, too big. Out, out. But there’s the snow. It’s too cold for babies.”
Biting her lower lip, Matrona set the handkerchief down and retrieved a small music box. Winding it, she let it play—a simple folk song always sung at Christmas, one of Roksana’s favorites. She waited for Roksana to respond, but her friend did not seem to hear it at all.
“Babies die, too cold. Poor Esfir.”
Matrona’s breath caught, and when it released, it carried the name of her vanished sister. “Esfir?”
“Sleep, my beautiful good boy,” she sang. “Bayushki bayu. Quietly the moon is looking into your cradle.”
Roksana’s lullaby clashed with the metallic notes of the music box. Tears sprang anew, and Matrona pressed a knuckle to her lips to stifle a sob. It really is too late, isn’t it? She won’t come to herself.
Muffled voices behind the wall. Matrona caught “don’t need you in here,” “only asked for her,” and “wait outside” among their words. The front door shut.
A knock on the bedroom door. Matrona turned to see Galina Maysak step into the room, her shoulders hunched as though she wished to be smaller, her eyes slightly downcast as though in apology. When she looked up, her dark eyes brimmed with pity. Matrona saw no hope within their depths.
Trying to swallow and not succeeding, Matrona slid off the bed to make room for Galina. She left the handkerchief and music box, now silent, beside Roksana.
Galina nodded her thanks and approached Roksana, though she didn’t touch her. “Now here, what’s ailing you?”
Roksana continued to sing softly.
Galina looked to Matrona, her lips forming the smallest, saddest smile Matrona had ever beheld. “Who are you singing to sleep, Roksana?”
Roksana stopped midsentence and stared ahead for a long moment before pushing the heels of her hands into her eyes again. This time, however, she screamed.
The sound hit Matrona like a cleaver.
“All the colors!” Roksana shouted, pushing her hands into her face so hard, it had to hurt. “All the sounds! All the colors!”
The Fifth Doll Page 13