Stomach tight, Matrona knocked a third time. No answer. She turned the knob and called into the house. Still no answer.
She stepped inside, a flitting memory of what had happened the last time she entered a house uninvited bouncing about her head. The Maysak izba hadn’t changed much since Matrona’s child-tending days. The front room had a wooded smell, its log sides made of a lighter wood than those in her own izba. Worn furniture took up three of its four corners. Beyond that, a small kitchen and woodstove. Then bedrooms and a narrow set of stairs to the attic.
That attic had been converted into a bedroom, which Jaska and Kostya had shared as boys. Matrona wondered if that were still the case.
“Jaska?” Matrona called, walking through the house. She listened for the sound of inhabitants, or perhaps Afon snoring as he slept off his latest alcohol-induced headache. “Galina?” she tried.
The place seemed completely empty, which was strange, given the number of Maysaks who inhabited it. It could be disastrous if someone, especially Afon, discovered her roaming it, but she had to check the attic before she’d be content to look for Jaska elsewhere.
She didn’t want him to be alone, as she had been.
The stairs to the attic were so steep, they were almost a ladder, and Matrona had to ball her skirt into her fists to climb them. She heard a soft groan, so she hurried up the remaining steps, nearly hitting her head on the sloping roof.
There were two low beds, one against each angled wall, both narrow with bits of straw poking out from the mattress. One simple side table between them, one half of a candlestick, a pitcher, a cup. Jaska stretched out over the leftmost bed, one elbow swung over his eyes, the other tucked next to his ribs. His hand rested on his stomach as though it pained him.
It came almost unbidden this time, showing her a layer of darkness dripping like sludge. The doll-sight pierced through it, and she saw dancing across Jaska’s hair a faint loneliness that mirrored her own, a desire for truth knotted in his core. There was a drive inside him to find solutions to problems, his or others’. Deeply ingrained affection for people; disorganized thoughts. A pain for his parents that pressed on her as heavily as Kostya’s had.
A trust and affection for a woman tied up with another man.
Her pulse quickened and her bones felt light enough to float.
She swallowed and whispered, “Jaska.”
He startled as though waking from a deep and treacherous sleep. He sat up ever so slightly, now pressing a hand to his head. Matrona thought she could feel the pulsing pain of it in the too-warm air. She crossed the room to him, ignoring the squirming feeling in her gut that told her it was improper. The floorboards creaked under her feet. Jaska blinked his red eyes before his gaze found her. Matrona thought he looked almost relieved.
She knelt on the floor beside his bed. “Is it terrible?” she asked at the same time he said, “You opened it.”
His voice was strained, and he closed his eyes again, wincing as he did so. “Yes,” he answered. “Yesterday . . . was worse.”
“I looked for you.” She took his hand in both of hers, if only to root him to reality, to give him some sensation other than the roiling darkness that consumed his mind. “You weren’t home.”
“I was . . . in the wood. Setting snares. There until dark, then . . . I got lost.” He chuckled once, a dry and scratchy sound. “Haven’t done that . . . since I was a boy.”
“I remember.” It was the reason she’d been asked to tend to the Maysak children for a time. The boys had gotten lost, and it was determined someone needed to watch over them since the older children struggled to do that, work, and tend to Olia’s sickness.
He swallowed, the apple of his throat bobbing with the effort. Releasing him, Matrona went to the side table and poured water into the cup there. Jaska accepted it with a weak grip and drank slowly.
Matrona set the empty cup on the floor. “It will fade.”
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“No one is home—”
“Not anywhere with me,” he clarified, pressing his fingertips into his eyes. “I’m . . . awful.”
“You’re not.” Matrona snatched up his hand again and squeezed it. “It’s just the spell.”
“It’s all true.”
“It will pass. In a day or two, the shadows will brighten, the memories will fade, and the voice will quiet. Then you’ll be yourself again.”
“I don’t . . . want to be.”
“Be what?”
He groaned. “Myself.”
“Jaska Maysak.” She rose from the floor and sat on the edge of the bed, though the narrow mattress barely allowed enough space for her. “You are not awful. You are not any of the things Slava’s sorcery would have you believe.”
His eyelids fluttered open. A vein rose in the center of his forehead.
“You are wonderful,” Matrona continued, softer now. “You are diligent. You are a dedicated son and a faithful brother. You work tirelessly in that shop to see to the needs of the village. You’re patient with your father . . . and with Feodor.”
Feodor’s name felt strange on her tongue, tasteless and heavy. Feodor. She hadn’t thought of him since he’d escorted her to Slava’s home. Didn’t want to think of him.
Jaska snorted. “That man’s back wouldn’t bend if an ox sat on it.” His eyes looked a little clearer, and Matrona let a trickle of relief urge a smile onto her face.
She sought to pull him from the throes of the sorcery, to push aside the shadows lingering in his expression. “You are kind. You’ve been nothing but kind to me even after I opened my first doll. You’ve helped me more through this ordeal than anyone else.”
Jaska pulled his hand from her grip and pressed it into the bed, trying to sit up. Another wince.
“You may not believe in God,” Matrona went on, quieter still, “but you are faithful. You believed me. You care in a way other people do not. You’re not afraid to show your heart, and it’s good, Jaska.”
She felt the warm pads of his fingers on the back of her arm, though she hadn’t seen him move. The touch made no sound, yet it sent a wave of alertness through her. Jaska’s gaze leveled with hers, and through that singular connection, Matrona could read his thoughts, clearer even than the memories his doll had spilled into her mind. Her pulse reverberated off the slanted walls in beats of three, and in them she heard the name again: Fe-o-dor.
Jaska’s fingers tightened, a soft grip.
Feodor didn’t love her. He couldn’t give her the one thing she wanted more than anything. Even if that hadn’t been true, Matrona didn’t love him, and she had come to realize she never would.
Jaska pulled ever so faintly, urging her forward.
We’re all just dolls anyway, she thought.
She let herself drift toward him.
Jaska’s lips met hers. Shivers cascaded down the sides of her neck. His hand traced up her arm and slipped behind her braid, cradling her head, pulling her closer.
His lips were softer than she would have expected. His breath washed over her cheek as he turned his head and claimed her mouth again. Matrona eagerly gave it to him, parting her lips against his. The scents of wood smoke and angelica danced through her nose and throat.
Rough hands cupped either side of her face and pulled her back, just enough so that Jaska could rest his forehead against hers. His eyes were closed. She struggled to catch her breath.
She shouldn’t be here.
She didn’t want to leave.
“You make it better,” Jaska murmured. “The darkness. I’m sorry.” Despite the apology, he brushed her lips with a chaste kiss.
Matrona swallowed, the taste of him lingering in her mouth. “It will pass.”
He opened his eyes and smiled—smiled, despite the pain she knew was flooding him. That smile made her heart beat at an exhausting pace. But it faded, and Matrona knew he was thinking it, too. Feodor.