She thought to continue walking, but her muscles froze at the sound of a whisper from the man. Squinting, Matrona tried to draw his outline in her mind, and her stomach sank. Was that . . . Jaska?
The roving couple dashed to a new eave, and the moon cast just enough light for Matrona to see the cut of the man’s hair. A long breath escaped her. Not Jaska. In fact, it looked quite a lot like his brother Kostya. Matrona pinched her lips together, forced her gaze away, and trudged up the path with renewed energy. The sooner this was over, the better.
Even in the embrace of night, Slava’s house was not hard to spot. Not because of its size, its incredible decor, or the fact that, at the right angle, it looked like a dragon. No, it stood out from the shadows for the light in its window. A single candle flame, but amid a village sleeping in the dark, it blazed like the sun. Matrona fixed upon it, slowing to watch the subtle shifting of its light, before approaching the front door.
The bright colors of the home looked muted, almost gray and dull, and Matrona fancied that if she ran her hand against the siding, she could wipe off the shadows like ash from fine porcelain. Instead, she brought her knuckles toward the door. Paused, and dropped her fingers to the door handle. She stepped inside.
The air in the house was too warm—almost suffocating after her brisk walk through the cool night. It smelled faintly of kvass and strongly of smoke. Turning the corner by the stairs, she saw Slava sitting in one of his fine chairs beside that flickering candle, a glossed pipe held to his lips. Corn-silk-colored smoke passed through his nostrils as he looked up at her.
Dragon, indeed.
He pulled the pipe’s stem from his lips. “I was concerned I’d have to persuade you,” he said, and Matrona noticed two dolls on the table beside him—her parents’. Were their bellyaches Slava’s doing? How far would he have gone, had Matrona not come?
He paused to puff twice on the mouthpiece, then let the smoke flow all at once from his lips. “I’m relieved I do not have to.”
Persuade me, Matrona thought. She didn’t bother to hide the frown tugging on her lips. “I’m here now, Tradesman.” She emphasized his occupation. A bit of metal caught her eye—a bridle, new enough that it gleamed without blemish, beside a leather satchel, its sides expanding with the contents within. Slava must be leaving for his trades soon. Matrona wondered again how he alone managed to escape—
“Tell me about the loop,” she said.
He raised a gray brow. “What loop?”
“In the wood. Walk too far south and you appear in the north. Too far west and you appear in the east.”
“So you’ve noticed.” Smoke spilled from his nostrils. “And what were you doing so deep in the wood?”
Matrona rolled her lips, trying to determine how far to extend her honesty.
Slava’s face seemed to melt into his wrinkles. “I will teach you soon enough, and you will not speak of it to another soul, is that understood?”
She watched him for several long seconds through his halo of smoke. “Show me what’s inside the third doll.”
He smirked faintly—Matrona saw it only by the twitching of his beard. He took one more draw of his pipe before dumping its ashy contents in a bowl on a small side table. He stood, both knees popping as he did so, and took up her parents’ dolls before walking back toward the kitchen and the carpeted hallway that led to the dolls. He said nothing to her, only motioned with his hand, fully expecting her to follow.
She did.
The hallway was unlit, save for the light of a lamp glowing under the door to the room of the dolls. The hall seemed much longer than Matrona remembered, and she was oddly out of breath by the time Slava opened the door.
The hissing of the kite scared Matrona. Her shoulder slammed into the doorjamb when she jumped.
“Easy, Pamyat.” Slava spoke with a grandfatherly tone, his voice worn. He set her parents back in their respective places on his tables. Matrona wondered again at his veiled desperation to have her take his place as the keeper of the dolls. He was old, yes, but seemed to be in good-enough health.
The dolls watched her enter. All their faces looked forward, as if in anticipation of her arrival. Matrona tried not to shiver under their relentless, flat stares, but her resolve could go only so far. She hoped Slava had not seen her shudder.
She stared back, her gaze jumping from face to face. There was Boris, Pavel, Oleg, Roksana, Irena, Lenore, Nastasya, Darya, herself. Slava moved for her doll, and Matrona stepped to the side, inching closer to the watching kite, to study more of the faces. She found Jaska and his siblings, Feodor, the Avdovin clan. A few of the faces took longer to recognize, for they were either younger or older versions of the people they represented. Children were depicted as adults, their faces still round in Slava’s style of art. A few of the elderly were youthful, free of the wrinkles they bore in life. Matrona wondered, briefly, what had inspired Slava to draw some of the villagers old and others young.
Slava turned about, his large hands wrapped around her third doll, but Matrona did not meet his eyes. She turned, scanning the dolls on the shelves. Slava said nothing, and when Matrona’s attention returned to him, she asked, “Tradesman, where is your doll?”
Slava’s expression did not alter the slightest bit, not even a twitch of an eyebrow. “You assume I have one?” he asked.
“Everyone has one.” Matrona gestured to the full tables. She could not think of a single person in her acquaintance that was not represented among the figures, and there was not a single doll she did not recognize. “But I don’t see yours.”
“Hmm.” He lifted her doll in his hands. He removed the first two layers and presented Matrona with the third. “It is time.”
Matrona folded her arms. “You will not answer me?”
He held out her doll.
Swallowing back a complaint, Matrona took the doll in her hand, looking it over. It was the length of her hand, and today she wore the red sarafan that matched it. She turned it over, studying its back. Ran the pad of her thumb along the seam.
“Why must I do this?” she asked, half a whisper.
“I have explained it to you.”
“Have you?” she asked, feeling bold, ignoring a second hiss from Pamyat.
Slava’s lips drooped. “You must find your center, Matrona. You cannot understand any of this until that is done.”
Matrona took a long breath and let it out slowly. She examined the doll. “What will happen this time?”
“You will see.”
“You will tell me.” Her tongue was whip-like in her mouth. How her mother would fuss should she say such a thing at home. “I’ve endured two burdens for your sake already, tarnished my name among the villagers, and hurt my relationship with my parents. I nearly lost my engagement because—”
“You mentioned it the last time you were here,” Slava cut in. “Open the doll, Matrona. You must comprehend what I have done for you before you can help the others.”
Matrona’s breath paused in her lungs. Help the others? What was wrong with them?
Slava planted his hands on his hips, making him look broader in the poor light. “How old are you now, Matrona?”
Her gaze flickered from the doll to him. “Twenty-six. Why?”
“Then perhaps nothing will happen at all.” He dropped his hands. “I am weary. Open the doll before I force your hand.”
She gritted her teeth together. So much for conversation, she thought, and clutched the head of the doll in one hand, the base in the other. Her heart sped, making her feel light headed.
“What can he do that’s worse than what he’s already done?” Jaska’s voice whispered in her thoughts.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Matrona twisted the halves and pulled until their snug sealing opened with a faint pop. She held her breath, but as before, she felt no change overtake her. Opening her eyes, she looked down at the doll. A fourth doll sat inside it, identical to its counterparts, save for the simplified details to the clothes and kokoshnik. As Matrona fingered the small fourth doll, however, she noticed the third doll was different from the first two.