Chapter Five
I wake tangled in heat and fatigue.
My skin is damp. My body feels drained, as though the night has pressed on me with both hands and wrung something loose from my bones. For a moment I lie still, staring at the dark beams above me while my breath slowly steadies.
Sleep did not bring rest so much as images.
The traveller’s gaze, steady and unashamed, Mama’s hand striking my cheek, Radu’s fingers beneath my bodice, his breath warm against my skin, the woman in red leaning close, whispering about danger—they circle through my mind again and again, twisting into one another until I cannot tell where one ends and the next begins.
Even now they cling to me, stubborn as the sweat at my neck.
Above it all the storm raged, rain hammering the roof like fists, thunder rolling through the beams as if the house itself were being judged. The wind howled through every crack, rattling the walls until the prayers on my lips trembled with it.
Now it has passed. Morning light slips thinly through the opening near the roof, the air washed with damp earth and cooling wood—yet I do not feel clean at all. I push it aside. Dreams are only dreams, and the day begins.
I sit up slowly, push the blankets aside, and force myself down the ladder.
Mama is already awake.
She kneels by the hearth, coaxing the fire back to life, the glow outlining her figure in familiar lines. The sound of embers stirring is the only greeting I get.
"Bun? diminea?a,"[15] I murmur, lowering my eyes.
No answer.
Her silence presses into me, thicker than anger might have been, setting my heart racing for no clear reason. I linger for a moment too long before turning away and beginning the morning’s work.
We move through it without words. I sweep the floor where dust has gathered.
I fold cloths, straighten what is already straight.
She stirs the pot. I rinse yesterday’s cups in the basin, the water biting against my fingers.
The house feels narrower somehow, each sound too loud, each mistake waiting to be noticed.
When the time comes, we kneel.
Our prayers are brief today, spoken low, almost swallowed. I repeat the words obediently, careful not to falter. After we rise, Mama sets a loaf on the table and sits without looking at me.
I take my place across from her, hands folded in my lap.
Bread is set between us—plain, coarse, broken into uneven pieces.
I take my piece and eat slowly, tasting little, my eyes fixed on the table grain, counting knots in the wood.
Mama reaches out and places another piece beside mine.
It is not much, and still, my breath catches.
"Mul?umesc,"[16] I murmur, the words barely audible.
Mama glances up at last. No smile touches her face, but she reaches out and lays her hand briefly on my shoulder, grounding.
I exhale, the tension draining from me so fast it leaves me lightheaded.
My eyes burn, though I blink the feeling away quickly, ashamed of the relief flooding me for so little.
She has forgiven me. I sit straighter, I chew more easily, savoring the simple weight of her hand, the bread warming my fingers, the house holding together for another morning.
Mama rises first, brushing crumbs from her skirt.
"Go to Neaga," she says, matter-of-fact, as she ties her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "She’s still unwell. And the child… poor thing."
Though her tone leaves no room for refusal, it is not needed.
"Of course," I answer without hesitation.
She nods in satisfaction, already turning back to the hearth. "We help those who have little. And we pray for them. God sees such things."
Outside, the storm has left its mark behind.
The earth lies darkened, the air heavy with moisture, the world damp and newly rinsed.
Puddles cling to the ruts in the road, reflecting a sky gone dull and gray, swollen and undecided, as if it might yet open again.
I walk carefully, skirts lifted just enough to keep them dry.
I am halfway down the path when I hear my name. Elena stands by the well, a basket hooked over her arm, her pale hair neatly bound. I smile despite myself.
"Bun? diminea?a."
"Bun?," she answers. "Where are you off to so early?"
"To Neaga’s. Mama asked me to tend to her."
Her nose wrinkles before she can hide it. "To the wildling’s house?"
I pause, turning back to her, a crease forming between my brows.
"Elena," I say gently. "We shouldn’t speak like that."
Color floods her cheeks immediately. "I know. I’m sorry." She glances aside, her voice lowering. "It’s just… that woman and her child. They frighten me."
A small laugh escapes me. "There’s nothing to fear. Neaga is kind. She’s always been."
She studies me for a moment, then nods, her expression softening. "You’re right." A faint smile touches her lips. "That’s what I admire about you. You always see the good. You’re so… selfless."
The words warm me more than they should.
I duck my head, shy despite myself. "I’m not. I only do what needs doing."
She squeezes my arm before turning down another path. "Take care."
"You too."
I watch her go for a moment, then continue on. The path narrows as the houses thin, my thoughts settling back into quiet order.
Neaga’s house waits at the edge of the village where the last fences falter and the trees begin, its walls worn and leaning as though time has pressed harder upon it. Beyond it, branches gather close, their shadows already reaching for the roof.
"Neaga," I call, pushing the door open. "It’s me."
The hinges answer with a tired groan.
Inside, the air closes around me—stale, heavy, thick with the sour-sweet scent of sickness and damp wool. Light barely reaches beyond the threshold; the shuttered window keeps the room dim enough that my eyes must adjust.
Neaga lies on the bed, smaller than she should be. Her face burns too bright against the gray of her skin, her hair sticking to her temples. Each breath rattles faintly, as though her lungs must fight for it. A dry, weak cough takes her without warning, leaving her gasping when it passes.
I set my basket down and move first to the hearth. The fire has nearly died; I coax it back with practiced hands, feeding it small pieces of wood until a weak flame stirs. Then I cross the room and push the shutters open. Cool, wet air rushes in, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth.
I kneel beside her.
Up close, the fever is undeniable, heat radiating from her skin. Her eyes flutter open at my presence, unfocused at first, then finding me.
"Raveena," she murmurs.
"Yes," I answer softly. "I’m here."
I smooth a cloth and press it lightly to her forehead. Her skin is burning. Another cough shakes her, leaving her trembling.
"Has Popa Vasile come to see you today?"
She nods faintly. "He came," she rasps. "He prayed. And prayed."
Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Sometimes I wonder… if he isn’t cursing me instead."
The words land like a stone dropped into still water. I go rigid, a chill sliding up my spine as my gaze flicks instinctively toward the door, as though the walls themselves might carry her voice.
"Neaga. You shouldn’t say such things."
She coughs again, longer this time, the sound hollow and wrong. When it passes, she looks at me with glassy eyes, her smile fading as quickly as it came.
"Ah… pay me no mind," she mumbles. "I’m just tired. So tired."
I nod, forcing calm into my face as I smooth the blanket at her shoulder, grounding myself in the motion.
Of course. The fever has her talking nonsense; exhaustion loosens the tongue. No one would speak of Popa Vasile like that—not in earnest. Not unless something was very wrong.
I press the cloth more firmly to her brow, murmuring soothing words as if to press the danger of her speech back into her skin along with the heat.
The water trembles as I take the jug from the hearth and set it on the table, steam lifting in thin strands. My hand reaches for the bundle of chamomile tied with twine—the safe one, the blessed one. My fingers close around it.
And still.
For a moment, I do not move. I stand there, hands braced on the wood, listening to my own breath. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I promised.
I should make chamomile, nothing more. The kind of remedy no one questions. Proper. Permitted.
But I felt Neaga's skin—how it burns beneath my fingers, how it trembles even at rest. The fever is not breaking, it is circling, stubborn and cruel.
Chamomile will soothe, it will calm. It will do nothing else.
She needs the fire drawn out, not lulled. She needs the heat broken, the shaking quieted. Mugwort to settle the fever-dreams. Willow bark to cool what burns too high. Yarrow to pull the sickness back where it can leave her.
My eyes drift to her. She lies half-lost to herself, gaze unfocused, breath shallow. No one else is here. No footsteps at the door. No voices. Only the wind through the open shutters and the soft crackle of the fire.
She won’t notice the difference—no one will. And if she does not get better—
The thought stops me cold. I cannot let her die when I know what to do.
My heart pounds as I turn back to my pouch. Slowly, deliberately, I draw out what I need and lay it on the table—nothing excessive, nothing that might draw attention. Leaves. Bark. Dried stems, no different to the untrained eye.
I do not reach for the knife. Instead, I crush the herbs between my fingers, feeling them give, their scent blooming against my skin, clinging to it.
This is how Tata taught me—skin to leaf, palm to bark, for the body knows what the blade cannot.
The water sighs as I pour it over the herbs, and my breath steadies as I stir, slow and unbroken.
The surface darkens, thickens, the steam carrying a deeper scent now.
I lean closer and murmur, so quietly my lips barely move.