Chapter One
I slice the apple thin, careful not to waste any of the flesh.
The blade is dull from years of use, its edge nicked and darkened, still it bites cleanly into the fruit.
My fingers know this work now; they no longer rush, no longer ache to prove anything—though the skin across my hand is raw where the cold water from the well chafed it this morning.
A faint sting lingers each time the juice touches the small cuts.
I lay the slices one by one atop the dough, careful not to overlap them too much, their flesh already browning where the air touches it.
I lower my eyes at that, heat creeping into my cheeks as I slide the board toward the hearth.
Hands move in steady rhythms beside me: dough being rolled, flour dusted from fingers, walnuts crushed with the back of a spoon against a stone.
Sleeves are pushed up over forearms dusted white; strands of hair cling to temples, loosened by the heat.
The kitchen is warm despite the autumn pressing against its walls, the heat from the hearth licking at my skirts and fogging the air with smoke and breath.
Our voices weave easily as we work, a low thread of gossip and laughter—who is with child, whose cow has gone lame, how much grain might be left by spring. Someone laughs too loudly at a joke I don’t quite hear. Someone else scolds her for it, smiling all the same.
The apple slices now form a neat spiral. I sprinkle crushed nuts and a pinch of dried herbs over them, just enough to scent the pie.
"Careful," Doamn? Irina says gently, nudging my elbow with hers. "You’ll cut yourself again."
"I won’t," I answer. I adjust my grip all the same.
The pie is lifted together, set onto a flat wooden board, then slid into the mouth of the oven built into the hearth.
Inside, the stones glow dull red beneath the ash, the heat breathing out when we open it.
The opening is sealed with well-worn movements—brick and clay pressed back into place to keep the warmth in.
We do not stand idle; there is always more to do.
Bowls to wash with cold water drawn earlier from the well, herbs to hang higher so mice cannot reach them, wool to sort.
Someone shells nuts. Someone stirs a pot.
Elena stands across from me, kneading dough with practiced strength, forearms taught with the effort, her fingers flexing now and then to ease a cramp she does not name.
Her eyes lift to mine and she offers me a smirk, a private thing, quick as a spark.
Laughter flares again, then fades as I rinse the knife in a wooden basin, the water already cloudy with flour and peelings.
When the pie is drawn out at last, its crust is golden and blistered, the scent sweet enough to make my mouth ache. The apples have softened, their rims curling inward, syrup bubbling thick and slow between them.
We murmur our approval, as if it might hear us.
It cools on the table only briefly before Doamn? Marica cuts into it, the knife sinking down with satisfying resistance. Steam rises, damp against our tired faces. Wooden dishes are passed, portions claimed.
Mama comes to my side as the others turn back to their work. She presses a slice into my hands, warm through the cloth, her fingers lingering just a moment too long.
"Take this to Radu," she whispers so that only I can hear. "Before it cools."
My face warms instantly. I nod, unable to stop the small, foolish smile that pulls at my mouth.
When I turn, Elena’s gaze is already on me, her lips curved, her eyes bright.
I smile back without thinking, the way I always do.
Behind me, someone lifts another sack of flour.
The fire crackles. The pie steams in my hands.
I step into the communal room with the plates held steady in both hands.
The air presses low here, full of smoke, sweat, and the last warmth of food.
Men sit shoulder to shoulder along the long tables, voices rumbling as they finish their meal.
Wooden bowls and trenchers are pushed aside, crumbs scattered where hands have been careless.
A jug passes from one to another, wiped on sleeves between mouths.
At the head of the table, Popa Vasile[2] sits straighter than the rest.
His long gray beard is neatly kept, his tunic clean, hands folded in expectation. He barely looks at me as I set the plate down, his fingers already reaching.
"God reward you, child," he nods, eyes lingering a moment before drifting back to the food.
I bow my head and move on.
My steps carry me along the table, past familiar shoulders and voices, until I reach Radu.
He's broader than most boys of the village, already settled into himself.
His hair has grown darker with age, cut short at the nape.
His tunic is clean where others are stained, his posture relaxed in steadiness.
Beside him, I set the plate down without a word.
He smiles—a small curve of his mouth that makes my stomach tighten despite myself. His eyes flick briefly to my hands, to the faint red marks still there from work, before they return to my face.
"Mul?umesc[3], Raveena."
Heat rises to my cheeks before I can stop it. I drop my gaze to the table, to the grain of the wood, to anything but his eyes, and nod, retreating before the silence stretches too far. When I look up again, just briefly, he is still smiling.
By the time the men finish, the table is a mess of crumbs and empty plates. Bones are piled together, crusts torn apart and abandoned. The last of the pie has vanished entirely, save for a few slices, uneven and thin, set aside almost as an afterthought.
Doamn? Marica laughs as she takes in the scene, clapping her hands together. "Well, I’ll take that as a praise. Look at this—hardly a crumb left. They surely liked it."
"They've worked so hard, after all", Mama smiles fondly.
Around me, the women chuckle, pleased with themselves, and I laugh too, because it is what one does. The sound comes out light enough; yet, inside, something tightens.
We gather what remains, each piece growing smaller as the knife passes again and again. Enough to be grateful for—always enough to be grateful for. Someone jokes about it. Someone else shrugs.
When the plates are carried back into the kitchen, my smile is still in its place. Where it belongs.
***
Once the last bowls are stacked and the hearth is banked low, the light has already begun to fade.
It slips through the narrow openings in long, amber bands, catching on drifting smoke and stone alike. The fire is fed one final log, then left to settle. Hands are wiped on skirts. Shawls are pulled close. One by one, we drift toward the door, our voices easing as the day loosens its hold.
Outside, the cold has turned biting. The village exhales—doors opening and closing, footsteps crunching, the muted lowing of animals being called in for the night. Smoke rises straighter now, dark against the bruised sky.
Mama walks beside me, her arm warm through her sleeve. Next to us, Doamn? Irina lets out a small laugh, her breath puffing white. "Saints above," she nudges me gently, "your Radu nearly forgot his food. If he'd stared any harder, the pie would’ve burned through his hands."
A warm chuckle escapes Mama. "He’s a good boy," she concedes mildly, though I sense pride beneath it. "And attentive."
My cheeks warm again. I keep my gaze on the path, careful where I place my feet.
Elena walks close to my other side, hands folded neatly before her. She smiles as she speaks. "He hardly looked at his plate. I thought he might forget to eat entirely."
Doamn? Irina hums approvingly. "It won’t be long now. A good match, God-willing. Not everyone is so favored."
Mama squeezes my arm, gentle. "God has been kind to us."
"Amin," Elena echoes.
We walk a little farther together, the path splitting where the houses thin. Doamn? Irina stops first, lifting her hand in farewell.
"Noapte bun?," she says warmly. "Dumnezeu s? v? aib? ?n paz?[4]."
"Noapte bun?," Mama answers. "Domnul cu tine."[5]
Elena turns to me, her smile lingering a moment longer. "Sleep well, Raveena. May God watch over you."
"And you," I reply.
She and her mother turn away then, their figures growing smaller as they head toward their home, shoulders close together against the chill.
Mama and I continue on alone.
Our house waits at the end of the path, smoke curling thin from the roof. I follow her inside, the door settling without a sound, sealing out both the cold and the night.
Inside, the room is dim, shaped by the low, steady breath of the hearth.
Mama moves to it without pause, kneeling with a small sound of effort to stir the embers back to life.
I set down the basket and reach for the candle stub kept near the shelf.
One strike of flint, a brief hiss, and the wick catches in a golden bloom, pulling the walls closer.
"I’ll make something warm," I say.
"Good," she nods without looking up.
I grab the pot from the fire, gripping the handle through a folded cloth so the heat does not bite too cruelly into my palm.
The iron hums faintly, steam rising from its rim in thin, wavering threads; I carry it carefully to the table and set it down, mindful not to spill what trembles inside.
From the shelf, I take down the bundle of dried herbs tied with twine—things gathered in summer, hung to dry where the sun could not see them too well.
Mama coughs.
It is a small sound, quickly swallowed, but it catches in my chest all the same. She turns her head away from me as she does it, pressing her hand briefly to her mouth before lowering it again.
"I’m fine," she speaks before I can ask.
I nod. "Of course."
The second she bends closer to the fire, I turn, shoulders angling to shield my hands from her sight. My fingers slip into the pocket of my skirt and close around the pine buds I’ve kept there since morning—small, sticky with resin.