Chapter Six
"I have sinned, Father."
My voice sounds smaller here, swallowed by the stern walls.
I stand beneath the great wooden cross, its shadow falling long and dark across the floor. Christ watches from above, carved ribs stretched beneath tightened skin, head bowed in endless suffering.
"The Lord hears you," Popa Vasile intones calmly. "Speak."
My hands are folded tight in front of me, fingers laced to the point of aching. I keep my eyes lowered, fixed on the worn grooves in the floorboards, the places where others have knelt before me.
"I danced," I begin, carefully. "Last evening, at the tavern. I forgot myself. I let the music carry me. I didn’t think about how I was seen."
My throat tightens.
"I invited the gaze of men. I did not mean to, I swear I did not. But I felt their eyes, and I did not stop."
Popa Vasile listens without interruption. When I falter, he inclines his head slightly, a wordless encouragement.
"I laughed," I whisper. "I moved without restraint. I didn’t lower my eyes as I should have."
He does not scold or sigh. He does not rush to absolve me either. His face remains calm, carved into patience by years of listening to other people’s shame.
"The body is easily misled," he hums thoughtfully, a deep sound. "Especially when it is young."
I swallow hard.
My mouth feels dry, my tongue heavy. I want to stop here. I want what I’ve said to be enough.
But forgiveness is not given for half-truths.
"There’s more," I say quietly.
Popa Vasile doesn’t stir, but I feel his attention grow.
"It was after," my voice struggles to steady. "Radu came to me, outside the tavern."
"You were alone with him."
"Yes, Father."
I pause, unsure of how to say it. "He… comforted me. I was upset. My mother had—" I stop myself. That part doesn’t belong here. "He reassured me."
"And then?" Popa Vasile asks.
His gaze lifts fully to me now. I feel it on my face even without looking up.
"Then… he kissed me."
The silence that follows is heavier than before.
"Where?" comes the question, voice barely raised.
My fingers curl into my sleeves. "On my mouth."
"How long?" he presses.
"I don’t know," I whisper. "A moment."
"Did you return it?"
Heat rushes to my face. "Yes."
A pause.
"And his hands," Popa Vasile says, gently, as though guiding me through a lesson. "Where were they, child?"
I hesitate. Something in the question snags, pulling tight beneath my skin.
"Here," I answer, gesturing vaguely to my waist.
"Show me."
I flinch before I can stop myself.
"With words," he clarifies. "Be precise. Precision matters in matters of sin."
I force myself to continue. "Under my bodice. And… he lifted my skirts."
The act feels worse once spoken aloud. My heartbeat thrums painfully in my ears.
"And how did that make you feel?"
I blink, uncertain. "Bad," I answer quickly. "Ashamed."
A brief silence.
"And in your body?"
I shift, discomfort blooming. My palms are damp. "I—I don’t know."
"Think," he urges. "Did you feel warmth?"
I hesitate for a second before I nod.
"Did you want him to cease?"
"Yes," I press. "I told him."
"But before you told him," Popa Vasile continues, almost gentle, "what did you feel?"
The silence deepens. It presses in from the stone walls, from the altar, from the carved body above us.
I search for the right words, the honest ones.
"Confused," they come at last. "My thoughts weren’t clear."
"And your body?" he asks again.
My face burns now. It feels wrong to answer—though I cannot say why. Something in me pulls back, small and uncertain.
But this is confession, and he is God’s voice. Discomfort is part of penance.
"I felt… heat."
The admission leaves me exposed, as if my thoughts have been laid bare along with my words.
Another pause, before he exhales slowly. "You see," he murmurs, "how easily the flesh leads us astray. Even when the mind resists."
I nod, relief slipping in despite everything, grateful to have the meaning taken from me—shaped into something clearer. Safer.
"You did well to come," he continues. "To speak fully. God cannot cleanse what is hidden."
He tells me to kneel.
I lower myself to the cold floor at his feet, skirts pooling around my knees, my head bowing of its own accord.
His presence looms above me—the weight of his shadow falling over my hands, my shoulders, my lowered gaze.
For a moment, there is only my breathing and the faint creak of the church settling around us.
Then, I feel them.
Two fingers, lightly slipping beneath my chin. They tilt my face upward, forcing my gaze to rise.
I go still.
His eyes hold mine, fixed with an intensity that makes it difficult to breathe. My heart stumbles, then quickens.
"There are forces," he says calmly, "that seek to corrupt what is pure. They prey on innocence. On youth. On flesh that has begun to awaken."
His thumb presses slightly at my jaw, steadying. "You are not wicked," he continues. "But you are vulnerable."
"Yes, Father," I whisper.
"If you wish to keep these forces away," he says, "you must discipline your body. You must humble it."
He releases me at last, but the warmth of his touch lingers on my skin.
"Thirty prostrations," he instructs. "Each day. Morning and night. Until the Lord is satisfied."
"I will, Father."
"Now," he says, "recite the Lord’s Prayer."
Relief flickers through me. This, I know.
I cross myself, quick and practiced, and begin. My voice is soft, steady as I lower my gaze, letting the words carry me.
"Our Father, who art in heaven—"
"Look at me, child."
The command cuts clean through the prayer.
I hesitate, confusion flickering through me. Still, my head lifts again, my eyes finding his once more.
"Again," he says.
My mouth feels dry.
"Our Father," I begin again, quieter now, "who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name…"
I hold his gaze as he asked.
This is the cost. This is what must be endured for wanting what I wanted, for what I allowed. What keeps the evil away.
"Thy kingdom come…"
***
The church door closes behind me with a hollow sound.
For a moment, I stand there, blinking in the abrupt light, my eyes aching as they adjust. The chill still clings to my knees, to my bones, as if I have carried a piece of the floor out with me.
My neck feels stiff from looking up. I lower my gaze instinctively, smoothing my skirts, pressing my palms together to still their trembling.
I draw a breath—
A cry tears through it before I can finish. It echoes once against the church wall, then breaks apart into murmurs and hurried footsteps.
Another voice answers it, then another. Footsteps scrape against packed earth. Doors open. People spill into the path, drawn by the sound, all turning the same way.
I move with them.
The crowd thickens as we pass between the houses, shawls pulled tight, heads craning.
I catch flashes of colour among the familiar browns and grays—painted cloth, loose hair.
The travellers linger at the edge of the gathering, quieter now, watchful.
One of their women crouches, fingers brushing the grass as she studies something unseen.
Another rests a hand on her arm, murmuring something low and quick in their language.
As I draw nearer, it is the smell that reaches me first. Metallic. Sour and thick in the air, cutting through the familiar scents of trampled grass and animal warmth. Someone sobs. Something cold slides down my spine as I press forward, drawn despite myself.
Two sheep lie still on the ground.
Their wool is matted and darkened, pressed flat against their sides. One lies twisted, legs bent at an angle that makes my stomach turn; the other rests strangely whole, as if it simply decided to stop breathing where it stood. Their eyes stare wide and glassy, fixed on nothing.
There is no tearing. No scattered fleece. No gore slicking the grass as there should be. Only stillness. Emptiness.
Wolves tear. They rip and scatter. They leave ruin behind them, red splashed everywhere, bone and fur dragged into the brush. I have seen it before—everyone here has.
My breath catches painfully. This is wrong. This is not how animals kill.
A prayer rises to my lips without thought, fingers brushing the beads hidden beneath my sleeve.
"Lord Jesus Christ…"
Petru the shepherd kneels between the bodies. His cloak is half off his shoulders, forgotten. His hands lift helplessly toward the sky, his face streaked with dirt and tears. For a moment, his mouth working soundlessly, before words finally force their way out.
"Oh, Lord," he sobs. "Oh, Lord above, what have You done?"
He rocks forward, then back, fingers clawing at the air as though he might seize something invisible and drag it down to answer him.
"They were fine," he cries. "I counted them myself last night. I locked the gate—Holy Mother, I did—"
His gaze falls back to the sheep, and his body folds inward as if the sight strikes him anew. Someone grips his shoulders, trying to steady him. Another presses a hand to his back, murmuring something lost to the rush of blood in my ears.
Petru surges to his feet in a single, jerking motion. He turns fully now, finger trembling as it points.
"It was them," he cries.
The words tear out of him. His eyes are wild now, grief shaping into something harder.
"They came yesterday," he shouts, pointing at the travellers. "And today my sheep lie dead. Drained like this—" His voice breaks. He swallows, forcing the words through. "This is no beast’s work. No wolf does this."
Silence settles over us, tense and waiting.
"This is the work of a man," Petru says hoarsely. "Of men who know dark things."
Murmurs break out, words edged with fear.
"Godless ways—"
"Pagan tricks—"
"I said it from the start—"
My chest tightens.
I look again at the sheep. At the clean, terrible stillness of them. Something in me recoils, whispering that this is wrong in a way I do not yet understand.