Chapter Four
Dawn seeps in through the crack above the door, thin and pale. The house still holds the night’s chill.
I kneel by the hearth and stir the embers with the iron poker. A faint glow answers. I feed it splinters first, then a thicker piece of wood. Flame catches slowly, licking upward, breathing into the room.
Behind me, Mama tears bread in her hands. I hear the soft drag of crust against crust, the small knock of her cup set down between sentences.
"…they ran before sunrise… never should have let them stay so long… gold or no gold, it was foolishness…"
The words reach me as sound only. They do not settle.
I stare into the fire.
It bends and straightens, gold along its fringe, blue at its root. My hands hover over it longer than they should, letting the warmth soak into my palms, into my fingers, as if it might burn something away.
Earth. Smoke. Blood. The press of heat where no heat should have been. His—
My breath catches.
Its hands.
I see again the shape of Its mouth near my skin, the glint in Its eyes as they caught the moonlight, my skin prickling as if touched again.
Wicked.
I straighten abruptly and reach for another piece of wood. It slips in my grip—I steady it before it falls. It was only a dream.
My feet are clean—I checked thoroughly before climbing down the ladder. No mud crusted between my toes. No crushed leaves clinging to my hem. No cuts fresh enough to sting.
Nothing more than a dream.
Sparks lift and die as mama laughs behind me, the sound brushing my back and fading. I nod without turning, hoping the motion answers whatever she expects from me. The flames climb higher, touching the door, the bench, the wall where the torches hang.
They rest in their brackets, bound tight with twine near the base, resin dark and hardened along the wood. One. Two. Three.
Three.
My mouth dries. Did we ever have a fourth?
The room tilts slightly, as if the floor has loosened beneath me. Ash smearing across my palm as I grip the edge of the hearth to steady myself.
Three; it has always been three. Hasn’t it?
A hand lands on my shoulder.
I jerk as if struck, the poker slipping from my fingers and striking the stone with a jarring clang, drawing the world back into place.
Mama stands over me, her brow drawn tight.
"Raveena. You are not listening."
"Forgive me, Mama," I answer quickly. "My thoughts wandered. Tell me again."
Her fingers tighten on my shoulder, gaze searching my face as though something there might reveal itself if she waits long enough. At last, she exhales and takes up her words again.
After eating and washing in haste, I dry my hands on my apron, not waiting for them to fully warm again. I braid my hair tighter than usual. My fingers tremble once and I pull harder, willing neatness to steady me.
The sun has barely lifted its edge above the fields, smoke rising in thin lines above the homes. A dog noses at the edge of the path and looks up as I pass, then settles again. No one calls after me.
The ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, though it lies flat as ever. I keep my eyes lowered, counting my steps without meaning to. If I move fast enough, perhaps the heat that still lingers will fade. Perhaps the memory of breath against my ear will loosen its hold.
I press my lips together, tasting where I bit them in the night. Only a dream.
My heart does not listen.
I do not look for any known face as I pass the well; I do not greet old Doamn? Marica as she sweeps her threshold.
The square lies empty, trampled earth still bearing the marks of boots from the night before.
The church stands before me, its wooden walls darkened by years of weather, the small cross at its peak cutting into the morning sky.
The hinges groan through rust and weight as I slip inside, the door heavy beneath my hand.
The walls rise close on either side, dark and unadorned, save for the icons set into their frames. Faces watch from gold-leaf backgrounds, their eyes large and solemn. Above the altar, Christ gazes downward, fixed and unblinking, his painted ribs jutting beneath taut skin.
I draw my shawl tighter around my shoulders, though the cold steadies me.
The walls stand firm and straight. The saints do not waver. The altar waits where it always has. Nothing shifts. Nothing vanishes.
I move farther inside, toward the front, my breath slowing despite myself. If something has taken root in me, it will be cut out here.
A door creaks behind the iconostasis, revealing Popa Vasile as he steps into the nave. His beard is still damp from washing, the morning light that catches into it turning the strands silver along their lengths. Surprise passes briefly over his face.
"Raveena. What brings you here so early?"
His voice carries easily in the empty space.
"The Divine Liturgy will be this afternoon, you need not hurry."
"I know, P?rinte.[20]" The word catches in my throat. "Forgive me," I murmur. "I should not disturb you."
His eyes rest on me, unwavering.
"I… I have come for spovedanie,"[21] I say, struggling for steadiness. "I have sinned in thought. I cannot carry it until the hour of the Liturgy."
The admission settles heavy between us. He studies me for a long moment, one that seems to stretch without end.
At last, he inclines his head.
"Very well. Come."
He turns, not to the nave where the faithful gather, but along the side of the altar, a narrow space between the wall and the icon screen. It is dimmer there; a single candle burns before a painted saint, its flame brittle. Christ’s painted eyes seem to follow as I step into its glow.
The air feels cooler there. Closer—wooden wall at my back, the altar to my left, solid and immovable. There is nowhere to stand but close.
The priest lifts his hand and traces the sign of the cross over me.
"May the Lord, through His mercy, receive your repentance," he intones softly. "Speak, child."
My hands tremble where they rest against one another.
"Amin. My thoughts are unclean, Father" I whisper. "Last night, after the men left… I slept, and I—"
My fingers knot together at my waist. I keep my gaze fixed on the floor.
"I stood in the forest—I do not know how I came there. There was a… presence." My pulse stirs at the memory. "I do not know who, or what, but it was near. Too near."
I wait for a question. None comes.
The candle spits and settles, wax slipping down its side.
"It spoke to me," I continue, my voice thinner now. "He… It… said I had called it." My grip twist tighter, the last words barely holding shape.
Still, the Popa does not interrupt. The quiet deepens. It presses against my ribs, urging more from me.
"It touched me. Not—not as a man should." I rush on, before courage fails me. "But I felt it. Here."
My hand lifts a little from my lap, then drops again, uncertain, hovering near my throat.
The heat in my face is unbearable.
I lower my eyes further, wishing the earth would open and take me into it. I should not be speaking this. It should be buried, prayed into silence. Yet if I do not give it voice, it remains.
I shift, suddenly aware of how small the space is, how the wall stands close behind me, how the altar blocks my right side. The icons beyond the screen stare forward, wide and unblinking.
Should I say more?
Should I speak of Its breath? Of the warmth at my throat? Of the way my body answered before my mind could command it?
My heart hammers.
"I did not wish it. It was wrong, I know it was wrong." My throat tightens as I falter again. "It was only a dream. But it felt—" I stop.
The word will not form. My gaze drops further, fixed now on the hem of my skirt. The icons above seem to watch, to judge, as though the saints can see what clings behind my eyes.
Perhaps I should not have come. Perhaps naming it makes it worse.
A shallow breath escapes me.
"I fear something is happening to me," I whisper at last. "I wake with… with heat in my body." My stomach turns at the admission. "I do not understand it."
Theotokos[22] gazes down from her painted panel, her eyes soft, her hands open in quiet mercy. For a moment, I wonder if she sees only a frightened girl where others might see sin.
"I do not want such thoughts. I wish them gone." My words stumble over one another, pleading now. "It felt as though—as though I were standing before a fire," I murmur. "And I did not step away. I—"
"Enough."
A stern finger lifts between us. I fall silent, my heart pounding so hard I feel it in my throat. The church seems to narrow further, pressing me into the corner between altar and wall.
Popa Vasile lowers his hand slowly.
"It is enough," he repeats.
His gaze rests on me, assessing. I feel it travel across my face, down to where my throat rises and falls with each breath. My skin prickles beneath it. Did I speak too much? Was it wrong to name it so plainly?
My fingers tighten together, nails biting into my palm, and I wish I could gather the words back into my mouth.
He steps closer, enough that I feel the air shift.
"You need not say more. I understand."
The pressure lifts so suddenly I nearly falter. He understands; I do not have to describe it further. I do not have to shape the rest of it into sound.
"The devil," his voice lowers, so that I must lean closer to hear it clearly, "tests those closest to grace."
I lift my eyes a fraction.
"Temptation does not come to the impure alone. It seeks what is bright. What is unguarded. The adversary tests those closest to grace."
The phrase settles over me like cloth. Closest to grace.
"Some visions," he goes on, "are permitted so that faith may be strengthened. The Lord allows temptation to reveal where vigilance must grow."
A strange calm begins to settle in my chest. So it was a test. Not a hunger. Not a secret rotting inside me.
The priest tilts his head slightly, studying me as he speaks.
"When such visions come," he says, even softer now, "you must imagine the face of Christ in their place."