“I’ll open it.” The promise sucked the energy from her. “But we must wait the three days. I couldn’t forgive myself if you . . .”
She didn’t say went mad, but Jaska nodded his full understanding.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Three days.”
She nodded. “Then I’ll only have to avoid Slava for one.” He probably wouldn’t do too much damage if she put him off a single day . . . yet the thought made her uneasy. “I won’t be able to get to your doll otherwise. I need to be invited in.”
“Won’t he see?”
Matrona glanced at him, at his desperate eyes, at the stubble lining his jaw. For some reason, she was glad he didn’t wear a beard.
“I’ll figure out something.” Oddly enough, it seemed the more Matrona stoked Slava’s temper, the less afraid of it she became. Perhaps that was the secret to his undoing.
Or to hers.
They trudged through the wood again, separating when the unmarked path grew too rocky, coming back together when it smoothed.
“Not if it will endanger you,” Jaska said after a stretch of silence.
Matrona had already begun to formulate a plan in her mind. She nodded almost absently. “It won’t. He won’t know, if I do it right.”
“How will you . . . ?”
Matrona smiled at him. “I have a hunch that a bit of clumsiness can go a long way.”
Jaska grinned at her, bits of sunlight from the uneven canopy spotting his hair bronze. They were close enough to hear the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer.
“Thank you,” he continued, “for showing me. It makes me understand even less, but I’m glad to know. And . . . thank you for not hating me.”
Matrona looked at him, surprised. “Why would I?”
Jaska snorted. “Even before the dolls, people found plenty of reasons.”
She shook her head. “Jaska, I could never—”
He grabbed her before she could finish the sentiment, his hand a vise around her wrist, jerking her toward him and behind an oak. Matrona’s face burned like the kiln, but Jaska’s attention wasn’t on her.
“Wh-What?” she croaked.
Matrona glanced around the tree. They were right on the edge of the village. She hadn’t realized.
“I think you should wait here before starting home.”
“Why?”
He gestured with a tilt of his head. Following his gaze, Matrona looked toward the pottery. Specifically, to a tall, lean man standing outside of it, his arms crossed over a spotless kosovorotka.
“Feodor?” she murmured.
“I don’t think he’ll be happy to see us emerging from the wood together.”
A defense rose up her throat, but Matrona swallowed it. “Yes, that would be wise.”
Jaska ran a hand back through his hair, and Matrona realized the habit was why it always looked unkempt. “This will be enjoyable.”
“He may just need a pot—”
Jaska laughed. “Matrona, Feodor is not the kind of man that waits around for anything if he can help it. If he’s here, empty-handed, he’s waiting for me.”
Matrona paled. She almost asked, Why? but there was no point. They both knew.
Jaska touched her shoulder, and Matrona hoped he couldn’t feel her pulse pick up beneath her skin. “Take care.” He pulled away and stepped into the village.
Matrona stared ahead for a few seconds before daring to peek back around the oak. Jaska strode toward the pottery, and Feodor’s gaze fell heavily upon him. They spoke for a brief moment before stepping inside the house, not the pottery. Matrona frowned. Feodor wasn’t confronting him, was he? They hadn’t done anything . . .
Did Feodor care about her enough to snuff out possible competition? Matrona snorted. Likely he’s assuaging his own pride.
She shook her head at the thought, but then again, strange things had been pouring into Matrona’s life like milk into a cistern. A frown tugging on her lips, Matrona stepped out of the wood and followed a path at random, her fingers lingering on the prints she could still feel on her shoulder.
Matrona evaded her home most of the day, skirting her parents when she could—not only did she not want an argument about how she was spending her time, but she feared Slava would turn them into living dolls again. Finding her, speaking to her through their mouths.
So she went to the Zotov izba, unsurprised to find Galina there, still working with Roksana, who hadn’t improved. Matrona stayed as long as she could stand, tidying the rooms and helping Alena with dinner, despite the way the woman still glared at her. Matrona could listen to her dear friend scream only so many times before her heart couldn’t bear it anymore, and she left.
Slava had called for her near dinnertime, her father said when she returned home. And as she lay in bed, her mind turned over the first three dolls: the secrets, the belligerence, and the memories. What could a fourth doll show her? And what if she didn’t succeed in opening Jaska’s?
What if she did, and Slava caught her?
She woke the next morning with a headache that only worsened as she milked the cows, the rhythm of splashing milk pounding into her skull. So much grief, and yet she still didn’t know why the dolls existed in the first place, how their vulgar magic worked, or what exactly Slava wanted her to do once old age claimed him.
Resolving herself for Jaska’s sake, Matrona changed into a clean blue sarafan and left for Slava’s sleeping-dragon home midmorning. She hadn’t yet reached the bend in the road when she heard her name.
Turning around, she saw Feodor heading up the path toward her. Biting down on a mindless stutter, Matrona nodded her head in greeting, silent, as she usually was around him.
Feodor glanced up the path. “Are you off to see Roksana?” he asked. “I should recommend you stay away. Madness can only beget madness.”
The advice chafed at Matrona. She tried to ignore it. “No, my legs just need exercise. And Slava asked to see me. His izba is my destination.” Best to stay with as much truth as possible. Matrona’s head hurt too much to keep up with lies today.
Feodor raised an eyebrow. “Again?”
“You’ve been speaking with my parents.” She couldn’t remember discussing Slava with him.
“I am perpetually speaking with your parents.” He started up the path, and Matrona walked beside him, noticing he didn’t offer her his arm, or reach for her hand. Were Jaska in his place, wouldn’t he have done so?
He continued, “I spoke with Jaska Maysak yesterday.”
Matrona kept her eyes forward and prayed away any color that might rise to her face. Feodor didn’t need to use the surname, as there was only one Jaska in the village, just as there was only one Feodor and one Matrona. Yet the addition added a sort of formality—a distance that perhaps, to Feodor, made Jaska seem more a thing than a person. People often spoke of the Maysaks that way.
“Oh? Another cracked jug?” Matrona winced at the feigned nonchalance. Of course he would expect her to know about Jaska’s . . . revelations.
Feodor detected it. “Are you really unconcerned? Do you expect me to be?”
Matrona glanced to him. “Have I given you good reason to be concerned, Feodor? You know where my loyalties lie.” But do I? she wondered—a thought that sent a cold pang through her chest.
Feodor rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Trouble, the lot of it.”
They’d moved around the bend, and Matrona could see Slava’s house lurking ahead of them. She realized she’d been clenching her fists and forced them to relax. Scraping together some courage, Matrona asked, “Why do you want to marry me?”
Feodor dropped his hand. “Pardon? That’s a bold question.”
“But an important one.” She slowed her steps to buy herself more time. “If I may ask it,” she added.
A small frown touched Feodor’s mouth. “Because despite the . . . complications . . . we’ve experienced as of late, you are the obvious choice.”