It was not a childish thrill that filled Matrona at the sight of her betrothed, but rather a wave of self-consciousness, of wondering, Why me? and What will he be like? Theirs would be a slow-burning romance, if there was to be romance at all. Deep down, she prayed there would be.
He was speaking to her father, who looked up and noticed her first, followed by her mother. Realizing she still held the wedding clothes, Matrona flushed and quickly shoved the marriage things into Roksana’s arms. Her friend, God bless her, wordlessly hurried back down the hall to Matrona’s small room to hide the items away.
Again Matrona tucked those short hairs behind her ears and straightened her bodice. Before she could speak, Feodor noticed her parents’ line of sight and turned around. The sunlight made his pale hair appear lighter and slightly red, which made his blue eyes bluer and his dark brows darker. Feodor was tall but slight of frame, and he stood with an erectness that looked almost painful.
“Ah, Matrona.” He gave her a slight smile and stiff nod of his head. It was then that Matrona noticed the ceramic jug in his hand and the weighted satchel in her father’s. Feodor was here for an exchange.
“Three pounds of beef today,” he said in answer to her unspoken question.
“Yes, Matrona.” Her mother’s sharp eyes focused on her. A few wisps of dark hair peeked out from her mother’s head scarf. “Fetch some milk for the Popovs. Don’t leave dear Feodor waiting.” She took the jug from Feodor’s hand and hurried across the room in small steps. “Best of the cream, now,” she said a little quieter as she shoved the vessel into Matrona’s arms. It was unremarkable other than the depiction of a rearing white horse on its front.
“Yes, Mama.” Matrona took the jug and stepped into the small back hallway that opened to the yard where the milk cows were stabled. The door was cracked open to let in the sweet morning air. Two layers of rug covered the floor, their tight braids stained with soil from outside. Multiple shelves lined the hallway, some stacked with tools, some with the barrels that held the milk. In a cellar the milk would last a few days, but there was never a need to store it there. Matrona’s family was the only one in the village that kept milking cows, and these barrels were always empty by sunset, even with the evening milking.
Holding Feodor’s jug against one hip, Matrona tapped the barrel to let the milk flow. It poured so easily, taking the shape of the spout as it would take the shape of the jug, doing as she wanted without complaint, without hiccup. It splattered against the bottom of the jug, wetting her sleeve with a few drops. Less than a mouthful dared to splash away.
Coolness on her hip pulled her attention down to a growing stain on her dress. She pinched her breath against her tongue—the jug was leaking. After fumbling to cork the barrel’s bunghole, she scrambled about the shelves to search for another vessel. She found an empty pail, shook her mother’s charm from it—bad luck to carry an empty pail about—and dumped the collected milk into it. Clicking her tongue, Matrona grabbed a rag and scrubbed her red skirt. It would dry clear, but stiff. She’d need to wash it tonight.
Feeling her parents’ impatience as a worm wriggling against the back of her neck, Matrona filled the milk pail and finished it with cream from the top of the barrel before carrying it with practiced balance back into the front room, the handle of the damaged jug looped through her free fingers.
“My apologies, Feodor,” she said, interrupting whatever conversation the trio had been wrapped in, “but your jug is leaking.”
Feodor sighed. “I’m not surprised. It’s been repaired too many times to count.”
Frowning through his long beard, Matrona’s father folded his arms. “I’m not one to question the work of a Maysak, but it may need to be replaced.”
Her mother’s eyes brightened. “Oh yes, it should be. Look at those cracks! And don’t worry yourself, Feodor. Matrona will see you a new one right away. Won’t you, Matrona? My daughter looks after her own.”
She punctuated the statement with another sharp glare.
Breathing in a sigh that desperately wanted to escape her lips, Matrona set the pail down. “But of course, if you wish it, Feodor.”
A smile spread on Feodor’s mouth, but it did not show his teeth. “That would do well for me. I can see already the dedicated wife you will be.”
Matrona smiled; her mother beamed. With a slight curtsy, Matrona said, “If you’ll excuse me,” and slipped out of the house, the conversation between betrothed and parents resuming before she’d even shut the door. A busy day she’d have, for her father would certainly push her to finish the chores despite the time it would take to procure a new jug. She’d likely be the one to fetch it once it was kilned, as well.
Outside, she allowed a sigh to pass through her lips. It mixed with the warm breeze as she started down the dirt path that wound through the village, making her way to the pottery. The late-morning sun twinkled between the leaves of the oaks and aspens that formed the nearby wood, dotted occasionally with twisting hornbeams and thick linden trees. The wild grasses grew thick between the trees and the other izbas that housed Matrona’s neighbors, scenting the air with green. Roksana’s voice called out her name, and she turned to see her friend taking a fork in the path behind Matrona, heading toward her own home. Matrona offered an apologetic wave. With the distraction of the jug, she’d forgotten Roksana was in her room.
As Matrona passed the cooper and the path that led to the glade where the children so liked to play, she heard faint peals of laughter echoing from the wood. She walked around the Grankins’ small potato farm and the knitting shop owned by the Demidov family. The church bell rang; Alena Zotov, Roksana’s mother-in-law, must have been starting her women’s scripture meeting.
The path stretched long and straight for a ways after that, and Matrona lifted her eyes when the tradesman’s home came into view. Though it had sat in its little nook against the wood all her life, Matrona never tired of admiring it.
Slava Barinov’s home was by far the grandest in the village, and most certainly the brightest. Its yellow siding was heavily trimmed in blue, complemented by blue shutters and blue cornices. Twisting columns of wood held up a small, ornate portico over the door, and the two steps leading to it were vivid red brick, perhaps purchased during one of Slava’s expeditions. The nalichniki around the attic windows, for the home stood two stories, curled about themselves like bubbling candy. Small blue tiles scaled the roof, making it look almost dragon-like. The edges of the tiles glimmered in the sunlight. Matrona almost expected the portico to rise from the earth and turn to look at her, blinking at her with sleepy glass eyes, but the home remained rooted as it was built, and within a few breaths, Matrona had left it behind.
Matrona’s path soon curved around the second half of the village, for Slava’s home sat at its midpoint. It wasn’t until she saw the smoke puffing from the pottery’s chimney that her stomach clenched within her, and her fingers grew clammy around the cracked jug’s handle.