Chapter One
I wake with a gasp.
My body jerks upright, breath tearing out of me in short, frantic pulls. My heart hammers so hard it hurts, a wild, panicked rhythm that refuses to slow. For a moment I don’t know where I am—only that something has been taken from me, or given, almost.
Light floods my vision then. Sunlight spills through the gaps in the roof, dust motes drifting lazily in its wake. Morning. Birds somewhere beyond the walls, the ordinary sounds of day settling into place.
I press a hand to my chest, trying to steady myself, feeling the warmth of my skin, the heaviness of my limbs. Real.
A dream—it had to be.
Still, my mouth is dry. My throat aches faintly, as if having breathed cold air too long. My mind scrambles, grasping for shape, for reason. Pale hands. The brush of fingers along my lips. That voice, low and warm, the way my body—
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head firmly, willing it to scatter the images loose, my hand lifting to my face—
—only to freeze.
My hair clings to my fingers in darkened, heavy strands. Cold seeps into my skin where it rests against the base of my neck. I tug a lock forward and stare at it.
Undeniably wet.
No.
My pulse spikes, dizzying, as I throw the covers back and stare down at myself.
My stockings are smeared dark with earth, streaked along the calves and heels, grit clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Mud has dried there in thin, cracked lines, leaves caught in the weave.
I scramble from the bed and drop to my knees, the motion so fast it makes the room tilt. My hands fumble beneath the frame, fingers scrabbling against wood until they find it.
The box.
Its lid creaks when I wrench it open, far too loud in the stillness. Inside—bundles and sprigs wrapped in twine. Dried leaves. Pressed stems. My breath comes fast as I dig through them, hands clumsy, heart in my throat.
I find them at last—the moonflowers. Only a few lie nestled within, their petals brittle and curled inward with age. The pale glow they once held is long gone, reduced to something fragile and faint. Dried, old—exactly as I left them. Nothing that should not be there.
My lungs burn as they suck in a breath, then another. I bow forward, pressing my forehead briefly against the wood of the bed, rough against my skin.
Of course.
My hair is only wet because I sweated through the night—because I thrashed and dreamed and pulled the blankets tight around me while the storm raged.
The stockings—I grimace—yesterday I ran back and forth half the day, through mud and grass and panic and prayer.
I never washed them properly, because I was distracted.
I straighten slowly, closing the box with care and sliding it back into shadow. My hands still shake as I smooth my hair down, as I brush at the stains on my stockings.
A dream.
Only a dream.
"Raveena!"
Mama's voice calls from below, cutting clean through the fog still clinging to my thoughts.
"Raveena, hurry!"
I flinch. My heart jumps again, though this time for a reason I can name.
"I’m coming," I call back, forcing steadiness into my voice.
The room spins faintly before it steadies as I scramble to my feet.
My hands fumble to twist my hair up, winding it tight against my head, fingers tugging harder than necessary.
The dampness resists, cool against my palms. I swallow and secure it with a pin, praying the heat of the fire below will finish what it has begun.
My dress comes down over my stockings in a rush of fabric.
I smooth it once, twice, hiding the stains, hiding everything.
The wool falls heavy and forgiving. Good.
My breath is still unsteady when I come down, each rung of the ladder taken too fast. At its feet, they are all waiting for me.
Mama stands at the table, her face alight with a smile I have not seen in days. Beside her, Doamn? Irina beams too, her hands fluttering as if unable to keep still. Elena hovers at her side, eyes shining in a barely contained excitement.
"There you are," her mother steps forward without waiting, smile wide enough to ache. "We were beginning to think you’d decided to sleep the whole morning away."
"Or that you were hiding from us," Elena teases lightly, nudging me with her elbow.
Mama’s gaze sweeps over me—practiced. My heart stutters as it lingers on my hair, my sleeves, my hem. But, to my relief, she gives nothing more than a satisfied nod.
"We’ve come to help," Doamn? Irina says, reaching for a linen cloth near the wall with eager hands. "It’s time."
Time?
"The dress," Elena clarifies, almost bouncing on her toes. "The seamstress is coming later this week, but Mama said we could start the fittings today."
For a heartbeat, I only stare at them. The dress.
The thought hits me, disorienting in its familiarity. Of course—the vows, Radu’s name spoken aloud, promised, sealed. White cloth. Gold thread. A future in motion.
"Yes," my voice rings strange in my ears. "The wedding."
Mama smiles then, small and relieved, as if something has been set right again.
"You’ll be beautiful," she says. "Everything will be as it should be."
As it should be.
I let myself be guided toward the bench, toward the folded linen laid out with care. Soon, their voices fill the room—soft, excited, planning ahead. Measurements. Adjustments. Small details spoken of with certainty and joy.
Doamn? Irina smooths the fabric with both palms, pressing down as if it might remember the shape of her hands.
It is plain cloth—thick, stiff to the touch, the colour of unbleached wool.
It holds its shape even before it is lifted, as if already certain of what it will become.
Elena gathers one end while Mama brings the other, and together they raise it and settle it over my shoulders.
The weight surprises me. It falls straight down, heavy and narrow, brushing my arms, my hips. Mama steps closer, her eyes shining as she adjusts the line at my collar, tugging once, twice, until it sits just so. "There."
Elena moves around us, light on her feet, fingers quick as she pinches and folds, imagining seams where there are none yet. Her smile never leaves her face.
"It suits you," she exclaims softly. "I knew it would. I’m so happy for you."
Her hands linger at my waist, pressing the fabric inward, measuring by feel.
Irina nods. "Such a good match. Strong. Reliable. You’ll never want for anything."
Her gaze drifts to my mother, lingering for a moment before she lets out a short laugh. "Do you remember," she says, "when they were little?"
Mama hums in agreement.
"Every time the children played catch," Irina goes on, "Radu was always chasing after you." Her eyes crinkle as she glances up at me. "Running himself breathless until he was red in the face."
I feel Elena’s hands pause at my side.
"It wasn’t just Radu," she huffs. "All the boys tried. Every one of them."
She steps back, her head tilting as she studies the fall of the cloth. "And she never let herself be caught."
Mama’s smile deepens. "You always were hard to hold. Always slipping away."
"Well," Irina's laughs rings again, louder this time, "it seems he caught her at last."
She reaches out and tugs the fabric tighter, the pull firm as she pats it flat, already wondering about hems and seams, of how much cloth will be needed, of where the seamstress might cut to save material.
They voices overlap as they speak now —about the wedding feast, about guests, about how quickly children grow into their places. Mama nods along, her gaze never leaving me, as though she is already seeing something finished where I still stand wrapped in rough cloth.
I stand still, trying to follow.
I nod when they pause. I smile when it is expected. My mouth forms the right sounds at the right moments. The fabric rests against my skin, reminding me of where I am meant to stand with every small pull and pinch.
Still—
the forest presses in.
Enchantress.
Voices blur at the margins, their meaning thinning as if drawn too far. I feel heat along my throat, the remembered lift of my chin, the way my body leaned before I could ask it to. The scent of moonflowers seems to rise where there are none, clinging to the back of my tongue.
My fingers press together, grounding myself in the feel of cloth and thread—
when a sudden, brutal sting flares along my leg.
I hiss, my body jerking back on instinct.
"Oh—oh, child," Doamn? Irina stammers. "I’m sorry. I slipped."
The room rushes back into place. Heat, brightness. Faces close and concerned.
At my feet, Irina's hand lifts and the needle catches the light, a small bead of red already welling at the tip.
"These hands—" she chuckles, flustered. "They don’t listen the way they used to. Let me see."
She reaches for my skirts.
I move faster.
"It’s nothing," My hands come down, holding the fabric in place. "Truly. I barely felt it."
Elena leans in. "Did it catch you badly?"
"No. Nothing more than a prick."
Irina’s brows knit. "But there’s blood—"
"It’s fine," I insist, heart racing. "Please. Don’t trouble yourself."
Irina draws back at last, waving a hand as if to brush the moment away. "I’m clumsy today. Old fingers, always in a hurry."
The talk resumes.
The needle flashes as it is set back to work, careful now, precise over the steady rise and fall of their voices.
The lake recedes. The room remains.
And I stand still, leg throbbing faintly, my skirts held close.