Chapter Five #2
Old sounds shaped by rhythm and care, murmured to the brew itself. Gratitude. Permission. The same syllables I learned as a child, whispered over scraped knees and sleepless nights. I do not raise my voice. I do not cross myself.
I stir.
Once. Twice. Three times, until the brew settles.
My heart still races, but my hands are steady as I return to Neaga's side and lift the cup carefully to her lips.
She drinks in small, uneven sips, the liquid spilling at the corners of her mouth.
Each swallow costs her effort, a weak cough breaking through before she manages the next.
The heat of her skin seeps into mine. When the cup is empty, I set it aside and wipe her mouth with the corner of the cloth, taking her wrists gently in my hands.
Too hot. Too thin.
I should not touch her like this. I know that.
I have been told often enough. But I know, too, what helps.
My thumbs find the places Tata taught me to press, slow and measured, following the fragile rhythm I feel there.
Her breath deepens, just slightly, with each pass.
I lower my head and murmur the old words, barely shaping them, sound dissolving into breath before it can become anything else.
Neaga does not stir. She cannot hear them.
After a moment, her eyes open again, unfocused, searching the dim light. "Raveena," she whispers, voice scraped raw. "They’re watching."
My hands still.
"No one is here," I answer quickly, though I don’t know why I need to say it.
Her gaze opens fully. It fixes on me with something that does not belong to sickness. Not entirely.
"They stand very still when they listen," she insists. "Like saints carved in wood. But they blink."
My stomach turns.
Her hand clamps around my sleeve, her grip startlingly strong. Her breath spills hot against my wrist. "I’m afraid," she says.
The words catch me off guard.
"Don’t speak," I shush gently. "Save your strength. It'll pass."
"Not for me."
Her gaze drifts toward the far corner, where her child sleeps behind the heavy curtain.
"If I don’t wake up," the words leaves her in a whisper, "you’ll look after Ilinca. Won’t you?"
My throat closes. "Neaga, you’re not going to die."
She exhales, the sound strained. "You’re kind. Like your father."
The mention of Tata settles heavily in my chest.
"But I hear them," her voice drifts in and out now. "What they say when they think I don’t. About me. About her." A thin, brittle laugh slips free. "They weren’t always like this."
Her gaze focuses for a heartbeat, clarity cutting through the haze. "Things were different when my Vlad was alive."
Her mouth softens around the name.
"They trusted him," her fingers twitch against mine. "Respected him. He kept the old ways, but he knew when to bend. Like your father. People came to us then. They listened."
A chill moves through me as her focus begins to fade again.
"Now they look away. The only reason I’m still here is because they remember him. Because they’re afraid of what it would say about them if they turned me out." Her mouth trembles. "But memory rots. And when they stop remembering—"
Her breath falters. A dry, painful cough breaks through her, and she sinks back, spent by the effort of speaking. Her eyes close, lashes trembling as I resume the slow, careful motion at her wrists.
"You’ll live," I say, though my voice betrays me. "Ilinca needs you. Rest now. You're safe."
The words feel fragile, as though they might break apart if I press them too far.
Her breathing steadies, just slightly, the fever pulling her back under.
Still, her last words cling to the air like smoke, refusing to settle.
I sit there with her, hands warm against her skin, listening to the house creak and the wind stir outside, reminding myself that this is only illness speaking.
At last, her lids sink shut. The tension leaves her face, softened by exhaustion. I wait until her breathing settles into a deep, uneven rhythm before rising.
In the kitchen, I move quietly, tending to small things. The cup is rinsed, the table wiped, the herbs returned to my pouch—each motion careful, measured. My hands work on their own while my thoughts drift.
The wildling’s house?
Elena’s voice returns, lighter than Neaga’s, easier to dismiss.
Illness breeds fear. People speak harshly when they are afraid, yes—but words are not knives, and people are not monsters.
This village is not cruel. They would not harm a widowed woman already bent by sickness.
They would not harm a child. We look after our own.
I am reaching for another clean cloth when a sound cuts through the quiet.
A sob—ragged, close.
I turn in a single motion, heart lurching as my hands find the curtain.
Little Ilinca is awake.
She sits upright on her narrow bed, shoulders hunched, clutching the blanket to her chest. Her dark hair sticks out in uneven tangles, as if it has never quite learned to lie flat. Her eyes are wide and shining, too big for her face, fixed on the sheets beneath her.
The linen is soaked. Blood has spread across it in dark, uneven patches, seeping through the folds where she must have shifted in her sleep. It stains her thighs, her nightshift, her shaking hands where she has tried to contain it.
For a moment she looks like a wounded animal.
Her breath comes in short, broken bursts. A thin, helpless gasp escapes her throat, as if she expects more blood to come, as if she cannot understand why it will not stop.
Relief leaves me in a slow breath.
"Oh," I whisper.
I cross to her quickly and kneel, careful not to startle her further.
She flinches anyway, eyes darting from the stain to my face and back again, searching for sense, for blame, for something to hold responsible for what her body has done.
Her fingers hover over the blood, unsure whether touching it will make it worse.
A small, panicked whimper slips from her mouth.
She thinks she is dying.
I reach out and gently smooth her tangled hair back from her face.
"It’s all right," I murmur, forcing warmth into my voice so she can see there is nothing to fear. "Truly. It’s all right."
She stares at me as if I have said something impossible.
Her body still trembles.
"This is…" I pause, searching for something bright enough to cut through the fear. "This is wonderful."
Her brow knits. Her gaze flicks down to the blood, then back to me, confusion and dread tangled together.
"You’ve become a woman," a smile touches my lips. "That’s all."
I open my mouth to say more—what Mama once told me, what all girls are told—when my gaze drifts past her, to the small window set high in the wall.
Outside, voices rise and fall, careless in their brightness. Laughter. Running feet, children chasing one another through the damp grass. Above them, the sky hangs low and gray, trees dripping from the storm, alive with movement. For a moment, the sound pulls me backward, and I remember.
The morning I woke to the same dark stain. The cold, creeping fear. Mama’s face—proud and grim all at once. The way the world narrowed without asking me.
After that, things changed.
I was no longer allowed to climb trees. No longer to run with the others until my lungs burned. No longer to laugh too loudly, or speak too freely, or linger too long near boys.
I learned to sit still. To fold my hands. To keep my knees together and lower my eyes when men passed. I had thought it was temporary. Learning how to disappear without being told to.
Neaga sleeps on, her breath rasping, unaware.
When I turn back to Ilinca, my voice is different.
"Listen to me," I whisper.
She does.
"You don’t need to tell anyone yet," I say gently. "Not right away."
Her eyes widen further, but she nods fiercely now.
"If you want to keep playing," I continue, choosing each word as if they might cut if mishandled, "if you want to climb and run and laugh outside a little longer… then we keep this between us."
My heart begins to race, though I don’t know why. The words come from somewhere deeper than thought, slipping free before I can stop them.
"I’ll help you," I say. "I promise. As long as I can."
She lets out a small sigh, something like relief, and reaches for my sleeve. I gather her into my arms, smoothing her hair back, my pulse loud in my ears.
Outside, the children’s laughter rises again.
Inside, I rock her gently, holding her close—shielding her from the bed, from the window, from whatever waits beyond this moment.