Chapter Four
Elena and I slip into the movement of the room, plates in our hands, shoulders brushing past warmth and noise. The tavern is alive tonight—louder than I have ever known it.
Firelight dances across the low beams, throwing gold and shadow over packed tables and crowded benches. Smoke gathers beneath the rafters, thick with the smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, spilled ale.
It has the shape of a feast, though no one has named it so.
Our men sit shoulder to shoulder with theirs now, cups raised, voices tangled together in laughter that comes easily.
Radu’s father speaks animatedly with two of them, his hand punctuating a story I cannot hear over the din.
Even Popa Vasile sits at a table near the wall, his cup never left empty for long, his mouth curved into a smile that comes easily now.
A dog sleeps beneath a bench, tail twitching in its dreams. One of the travellers pounds a rhythm on the table with his palm, and another answers it with a song—deep-voiced, lilting, the words unfamiliar but the joy unmistakable.
Someone else joins in, then another. Wax drips from candles wedged wherever space allows, their flames trembling with every burst of sound.
Their women rise and move into the open space between the tables, skirts spinning wide, jewellery flashing at throats and wrists and hips—coins and chains that catch the firelight and scatter it back in a hundred glimmers.
Their hair flies loose as they turn, their laughter ringing out clear and fearless.
Men watch them openly—ours and theirs alike—grinning, calling out encouragement, stamping their feet in time.
I find myself smiling before I realize it.
This is… fun. The thought feels almost forbidden, but it settles in me all the same. For a moment, the weight I carry loosens and I move with Elena through the crowd, gathering plates left abandoned in the wake of appetite and distraction.
Every now and then, I feel eyes on me—not furtive glances, nor polite ones. These are open, curious, lingering. I keep my gaze lowered, hands busy, steps measured as I was taught. Still, my skin warms under the attention, aware of itself in a way it usually is not.
Elena's elbow nudges my arm, eyes shining as she leans into me. "Did you see their jewels?" she whispers. "All that silver. And the rings—"
I let out a small laugh, unable to stop myself. "They’re beautiful. Imagine wearing something like that"
"Mama would faint," she gasps in delight. "It must weigh a fortune. That much silver… it must mean something."
"Maybe they just like how it shines," I say, surprising myself with the thought.
She grins at me, pleased, before we weave our way toward the back.
The kitchen stirs with a different kind of energy—fast, purposeful, almost breathless. We move between tables and hearths, flying hands and overlapping voices. Pots are stirred, bread is torn, knives thud against wood. A barely contained excitement can be felt here too, vibrating beneath the work.
"Raveena," Mama spots me at the first glance, stacking plates into my arms before I can move. "Take these to the women. Quickly now."
She leans in, her voice dropping just enough to feel important.
"If we treat our guests well, they will be generous in return."
The noise swells immediately as I step back into the room—drums beating harder now, strings racing faster, marking a rhythm I feel through my ribs.
The dancers have drawn a loose circle, bodies closing in, fabric lifting and falling with each turn.
I thread my way through, setting plates down where I am told, murmuring thanks and nods, careful not to spill.
As I straighten from the last table, a hand closes around my wrist, making me turn.
She stands close—my age, perhaps a little younger—eyes dark and shining, face flushed with movement and heat.
Her hair falls unbound around her shoulders, beads and small coins woven into a braid that brushes her cheek when she tilts her head.
Layers of colour shift around her with every movement, her bracelets chiming with every breath she takes.
She grins at me, and before I can even draw breath to protest, she tugs.
The plates are taken from my hands as I am pulled forward, into the press of bodies, into the open space where feet stamp and skirts whirl.
The girl speaks, foreign words tumbling over one another in a way I can't quite grasp, but somehow find myself understanding anyway.
A stumble catches me off guard, but balance returns as her hand steadies my arm, the other settling at my waist. She laughs again, bright and fearless, and the sound loosens something tight inside me.
Hesitation lingers. Only for a heartbeat.
I am aware of the room, of eyes, of rules learned and remembered.
Yet, everywhere I look, bodies move—hands linked, feet stamping, voices lifted in song.
No one stops me. No one scolds. No one looks away in disapproval.
The wariness from earlier has melted completely, carried off by sound and warmth and closeness.
This feels… permitted.
The girl squeezes my hands and sets us into motion, guiding me in light, playful steps. I follow at first, stiff, uncertain—then less so. My feet remember things my mind has long set aside, and the rhythm finally slips under my skin.
We spin.
My skirts lift and sway as something bright escapes me. The room blurs—firelight, colour, faces slipping into one another as the girl throws her head back, her laughter rising, hair flying free.
The dance grows faster, louder, a joyful chaos that pulls me fully into it. My breath comes quick with delight, with something not felt in so long I had nearly forgotten its shape.
I spin again, dizzy and smiling, hands clasped in hers, and for these few breathless moments, I am small again. I am barefoot in summer grass, I am climbing trees, I am dancing without counting who might see. I forget to lower my eyes. I forget to be careful.
The room tilts, everything blurring together, sending me tumbling into other arms—firmer than the girl’s, steady as a post driven deep into the ground.
I look up to find the tall, wide-hipped woman from earlier.
Her hair frames the face I recognize instantly—eyes lined dark, a presence that quiets the space around her without effort.
The instant her fingers touch my skin, her breath leaves her in a brutal gasp, torn from her as if by pain.
Her grip tightens, then stills, gaze sweeping my face as if seeing something she did not expect to find.
"Fat?[14]…" she murmurs.
My brow furrows. "What—"
She leans closer, her voice dropping low.
"You must be careful," she whispers in that heavy accent that bends my language into something unfamiliar and intimate. "You… in danger. Grave danger."
The words strike colder than anything I have ever heard, making my heart stumble.
"What do you mean?" I ask, but the music swallows my voice. "I don’t—"
Another hand clamps around my arm before I can finish, yanking me backward so violently my teeth click together. Fingers bite into flesh as I am torn from the woman’s arms and spun around, the world snapping back into focus.
Mama stands before me. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and blazing with something close to terror.
"Out," she breathes. "Now."
The woman watches us go, her dark eyes never leaving my face, one hand pressed to her own chest as if steadying something unseen.
Mama does not look at her. She pulls me through the crowd without another word, my feet barely touching the ground as I am hauled away from the music, from the light, from the circle where laughter still spins on without me.
The door slams open, cold air rushing in as Mama drag me out into the night. The music dies abruptly, and before I can catch my breath, her hand strikes my face.
My head snaps to the side, pain blooming across my cheek, boots scraping dirt as I stumble back, shock stealing the air from my lungs. For a moment, I can only stare at her, ears ringing, the taste of iron rising in my mouth.
"Mama—" My voice cracks. "What—?"
She leans in close, so close I can feel her breath on my skin.
"Have you lost your senses?" she hisses. "Moving like that. In front of everyone. With those savages."
Her fingers tremble as she gestures toward the tavern, toward the muffled noise still seeping through the walls. "You looked—" She stops herself, swallowing hard. "You looked like a girl with no shame. Like one who invites eyes."
Tears blur my vision in an instant, driven by pain and shame alike.
"You are not a child," her tone hardens. "You are a young woman, a promised one, and you let yourself be pulled and spun like—" She breaks off again, crossing herself feverishly, as if to ward off the very image. "The devil himself was pushing you."
I choke on my breath. "I’m sorry, Mama, I didn’t know. I didn’t mean—"
"What will people think? What will Radu think? His parents?" Her gaze bores into me, relentless. "Do you want them to believe you cannot be trusted? That you are not pure?"
My head jerks in denial. "No, Mama. I was just—everyone was dancing. Everyone was—"
"Enough."
The word snaps shut whatever I was trying to say.
She straightens, drawing herself up as if gathering the last of her restraint. "You will go home," she says. "Now. Alone. And you will remember yourself."
Her voice softens in the slightest, yet that only makes it worse. "It is time you finally learn."
My chest heaves, tears spilling over despite my effort to hold them back. I nod, because there is nothing else left to do, my throat too tight to form words.
"Yes, Mama."
She watches me for a moment longer, as if to make sure I will obey. Then she turns away, hand already lifting to cross herself again, lips moving in a tight stream of prayer.