The milk stopped, and Matrona leaned back against a sore spine. If putting distance between herself and the tradesman didn’t resolve the situation, then perhaps Feodor could intervene. The Popov family was well respected and held sway over many in the village. Of course, she would need to tell Feodor about the dolls, and she wasn’t sure he’d believe her.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the full pail and carried it to a clean, empty barrel. She glanced back at the barn’s open doors, picturing Jaska between them, remembering the way he’d stood before her as she held the churn in her hands. His proffered elbow and his soft words, so different from . . .
She blinked hard. Feodor. Jaska didn’t matter. She’d humiliated herself enough for one lifetime, hadn’t she?
Her father came out to tend the small herd, pausing for a moment to watch her work, then nodding his approval when she met his eyes. The subtle gesture felt like warm tea on a tight stomach after two days under the thumb of that unyielding darkness. Hopefully he would still look at her kindly when she returned from her journey. She would have to come up with a story to explain her absence. Yet it could be a long while before she returned home—only time would tell.
When her father left, Matrona quickly distributed milk and cream and hurried to her room to gather her things. Her mother had taken to the laundry, and so Matrona helped herself to the kitchen stores, choosing that which would last the longest in her pack, enough for a few days. She pulled on her sturdiest shoes and vacated through the pasture, trying to keep her walk casual, though her muscles itched to run.
She followed the path toward the butchery, where it would turn south toward the wood. The grasses made Slava’s wagon tracks hard to find, but she thought she saw their direction and traced them into the wood, to a wide place between the trees. Uneven patches of wild grass gave way to moss, clover, and old, trampled foliage. She filled herself with several deep breaths to calm her nerves as she moved farther and farther from the village. Usually only the hunters delved into the wood, but Matrona had played among the roots and trunks as a child. It was not long, however, before she surpassed the distance she’d dared to travel in her youth.
Oddly, the aspens grew tightly together, forcing her to choose a path around them. She hesitated a brief moment, for no wagon would be able to pass between them, and there was no other route the tradesman could have taken. Had she guessed his entry point wrong? She worried her lip as she picked her way through sun and shadow, pack bouncing against her back. She thought of the glares of the village women, her mother’s open palm against her cheek, and the dark swirl of her own self-loathing. The memories propelled her forward.
After another mile, the trunks loosened, and Matrona paused by a crooked hornbeam to catch her breath, resting her hands on her knees.
The wood was absent of the sound of people; only the soft noises of busy insects and hungry birds greeted her. There was nothing to fear here, especially while sunlight still infiltrated the canopy formed by the trees. The earth beneath her feet was relatively flat, veined with brooks and goatsbeard. Were she to venture deep enough into the wood, she’d likely see a stray sika deer or a wild ass, perhaps even a pig, but nothing that would harm her. Still, were the trees to break for a road, she would thank every saint she could name.
So she walked, savoring the absence of people, focusing on the sounds of life around her—songbirds and grouse, shrews and red squirrels. She walked with her arms folded at first, but the exercise loosed them, and soon Matrona found herself picking her way over fallen branches and large stones, careful with her balance. She paused once more to gain her bearings—and was surprised to see that she was just outside a familiar glade with foot-crushed grass and a tall, triangular boulder in its center.
She paused, glancing behind her. No, that couldn’t be right. This looked like the children’s glade, on the other side of the village. The north side, and she had walked southward. There was no way she could have circumvented the village to arrive here. Then how . . . ?
She trudged forward, through the glade—it had to be one that looked similar, for Matrona’s route had never faltered, else the direction of the sun would have warned her. The symphony of insects hushed a little, and the noises of people milling about and working pricked her ears. She held her breath as the wood opened up to the village. The north side.
She’d walked a straight line, yet somehow managed to loop around to the opposite side of the village.
Her thoughts instantly turned to Slava.
But I’m not the first to delve into these woods. The game hunters frequented these trees far more often than Matrona did. They would have noticed the strange—what to call it?—loop from one side of the village to the other. Jaska and Kostya would have noticed it. Jaska would have said something.
Unless . . .
Matrona touched her stomach, the place where the seam would have been were she one of Slava’s wooden dolls. Slava had said she would separate herself from the village. Did that mean she could see this loop when others couldn’t?
Knees buckling, Matrona dropped to the forest floor and stared up at the sun. It all connected. There was no other explanation. Which meant one thing.
Matrona would never be able to escape.
Chapter 7
Matrona would not give in to Slava’s demands. If she could not run from the village, she would hide within it.
Fatigue dug at her body as she passed through the children’s glade. She ate a bit of cheese to assuage her hunger.
Her mind reeled. What would Slava do when evening came and went and the night stretched long and she still did not approach his door? Would he come for her in her own izba? What excuses could he possibly make to her parents?
Could she claim sanctuary at the church? Yet it would only be a matter of time before her own hunger drove her out.
As Matrona passed by the candle maker’s home, something on the path froze her feet in their steps.
Slava.
He approached her family’s izba from the main path. He strode with purpose, a towel slung over his shoulder, perhaps from whatever work had been occupying him before this jaunt. Like a mouse, Matrona skittered around the corner of the candle maker’s home, her neck flushing. Her pulse beat in her ears. Slava did not look her way. She drew in a shaky breath.
The appearance of the tradesman solidified in Matrona’s mind what she had already suspected—if she would not go to him, he would come to her.
Running her hands over her braid, Matrona took in her surroundings. The Demidov izba sat a short ways from her, and Lenore Demidov squinted at her from the window. Matrona pushed off from her hiding place and bolted west, daring to cross the path behind Slava before stowing behind another izba.
Roksana. She’d go to Roksana’s. Her mother would give her an earful for missing a visit from the most important man in town, but she would rather face Toma Vitsin than Slava Barinov.
The sun beat down as she hurried, and her lungs seemed unable to pull in enough air to sustain her once the Zotov izba came into sight. She forced steadiness into her pace, again checking over her shoulder as she approached the front door. Blotting her forehead with the edge of her sleeve, she knocked and waited. Knocked again.
Licking her lips, Matrona walked around the izba to the small workshop behind it, drawn to the beating of hammer against nail. Roksana, however, was not within. Only her father-in-law, Pavel, who glanced up the same moment Matrona glanced in.
“Matrona.” He picked a nail out of a heavy leather satchel hanging from his belt. A faded depiction of a rearing stallion marked the bag’s front. He’d only just begun nailing together planks of wood, but Matrona thought he might be making a headboard. “Roksana is with the midwife today. Unless you needed something made?”
“I . . . No, Pavel. Do you know when she’ll return?”