Chapter Seven
The church smells of wax and damp wool.
I stand beside Elena, her fingers locked around mine so tight they ache. Her palm is cold. I press back, steadying the fingers that have not stopped trembling since morning.
Doamn? Irina rests before the altar, white cloth covering her from chin to feet. The coins glint faintly where they rest on her eyes, and someone has tucked rosemary at her throat. The scent rises faint and green beneath the smoke.
Elena does not look at her mother’s face.
Popa Vasile stands above the coffin. His gaze sweeps over us all.
"We must not surrender to fear," he says. "Fear is a door through which the Adversary enters."
A murmur moves through the pews. Heads bow. Crosses are drawn.
My thumb brushes the inside of Elena’s wrist. Her pulse flutters there, thin and rapid. She sways slightly. I tighten my grip to keep her upright.
"The beast has been slain," The priest continues. "The danger removed. In His mercy, The Lord has delivered us from its jaws."
Outside, the wolf’s body lies in the square. I saw it at dawn. Its fur was matted with mud. Its jaws hung open, teeth bared to nothing. The men dragged it by its hind legs. They laughed when they lifted its head.
It is finished, they said. They believed it.
The memories press against my skull.
Red eyes in the basin.
White fangs at my throat.
The wolf’s dull stare beneath the morning light.
Popa Vasile raises his hand.
"Yet, we must guard our homes," he says. "Guard our daughters. Guard our thoughts. The devil does not strike without invitation."
Invitation.
My breath shortens.
I have not slept. Each time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth near my skin again. I woke with my heart racing, with heat still caught low in my body. I pressed my hands together and whispered prayers until dawn thinned the dark.
The bundle at my door. The dreams. The light that burst from my chest.
Threads wind tighter.
Elena leans into me. I feel her shoulder tremble. I shift closer, letting her rest some of her weight against me. The linen around her mother rustles as someone moves past.
Popa Vasile’s voice lowers.
"Let this be a warning," he says. "Let none among us invite darkness into their homes. Let none stray where they ought not walk."
His eyes pass over me.
For a moment they linger.
My stomach twists, my head bowing immediately. The gesture feels carved into my spine. Heat crawls up my neck.
Tonight.
The word settles like a stone in my chest. I will take Tata’s blade from its cloth. I will carry it beneath my skirts. I will walk into the woods before the moon reaches its height.
If it is hunger that walks there, I will meet it. If something walks upright and wears the shape of a man, it will bleed all the same.
Elena’s fingers tremble in mine. I squeeze once, firm.
Popa Vasile begins the final prayer.
"Deliver us from evil."
My lips move with the others.
Deliver us.
***
The church empties slowly.
People move in clusters toward the altar, murmuring, crossing themselves again before stepping aside. I keep hold of Elena’s hand until she drifts toward the women who have gathered near the door. Her eyes are swollen. Someone presses bread into her palm. She nods without seeing it.
I move forward. Near the front, a small cluster has formed. The priest’s assistant stands at the narrow doorway, one hand resting against the frame. He speaks in a low voice, leaning close to each person in turn.
An old man waits before him, cap in hand.
Behind him, Mihai the miller shifts his weight. He carries something wrapped in linen against his chest. The cloth hangs heavy. When he adjusts his grip, there is a soft clink from within.
The assistant’s gaze moves from the old man’s empty hands to Mihai’s bundle.
"Mihai," he says gently. "Father will see you first."
The old man steps aside without protest.
I draw closer. The door opens a fraction, enough to glimpse Popa Vasile inside, head bent toward someone kneeling before him. His hand rests on the man’s shoulder. On the table beside them lies a small stack of coins. One catches the light.
The door closes again.
A woman approaches carrying a hen in a basket. The bird shifts and rustles. The assistant smiles and motions her forward without pause.
The old man remains where he is, turning his cap between his fingers.
He bows, speaks quickly. The assistant listens, then glances down at the man’s empty fingers.
He leans closer to Popa Vasile, standing at the threshold, and whispers something I cannot hear.
The priest places a hand on the old man’s shoulder.
His lips move in brief blessing. The old man nods and steps aside.
When I reach the front at last, the assistant lifts his arm slightly to block my path.
"Father is very occupied today," he smiles. "So many burdens after such a loss."
"I only require a moment," I answer. My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
The assistant nods toward the side chapel. A man stands there with a young ram on a rope. The animal shifts, hooves scraping stone. The man speaks urgently, one hand gripping the wool at its neck.
The assistant inclines his head, still smiling. "There are many needs today."
The man with the ram is waved forward.
I look at my hands.
There is nothing in them. No cloth. No basket. No rope.
Popa Vasile laughs quietly at something the farmer says. His hand rests briefly on the folded wool laid near his feet. His thumb presses into it once, testing its thickness.
I wait.
More people slip past me. A pouch changes hands. A loaf of bread wrapped in linen is set down and taken up again.
The candles burn lower.
When at last his gaze lifts and finds me, it pauses only a heartbeat. It drops to my empty hands. Then it moves beyond me to the woman standing behind with a small sack drawn tight at the neck.
"Come," he says, gesturing her forward.
I step back, heart beating hard beneath my ribs. I press my palms together to still them.
"Please," I say again.
The assistant sighs, almost kind. "Come back tomorrow."
Tomorrow.
The word falls heavy.
From within the chamber comes the low murmur of Popa Vasile’s voice, steady and warm. A short laugh follows. The sound does not belong to grief.
"I cannot wait until tomorrow," I say quietly.
The assistant offers me a thin smile.
"God’s time is not always ours."
I step back. He will not wait for tomorrow. Tonight, the door will open again.
The air grows thicker near the altar. Wax drips in slow threads down the sides of the candles. Smoke hangs beneath the beams, pressing low against the carved wood.
I stop beneath the cross.
Christ hangs there, ribs standing in stark relief beneath hollowed flesh, head bowed as if the weight still pulls at him. The firelight catches along the curve of his side. The wound is painted dark.
I kneel.
The wood beneath my knees seeps cold through the wool of my skirts. I welcome it. I lower my head and let my hands fold together.
My lips move.
The words rise from memory first, steady and familiar. Our Father. Hail Mary. The phrases slip through me in a quiet stream. I feel them pass behind my teeth, across my tongue.
The church breathes around me. A cough somewhere in the nave. The soft scrape of boots. A coin touching wood.
I bow lower.
"Keep us from evil," I whisper.
My voice trembles once. I press my forehead closer to the floor.
The image of him flashes behind my closed eyes—red in the basin, blood at his mouth, rain running through his hair. My pulse stirs hard beneath my skin.
The candles tremble in a draft. Christ’s shadow stretches longer along the wall, bending over me.
"If this is sent from You," I breathe, "show me how to end it."
My throat tightens. I swallow and go on.
"Let my hand be steady."
Silence answers.
I remain there, breathing in wax and smoke and damp wool, until the tremor in my chest steadies. The weight inside me settles into something firm.
When I rise, my knees ache.
I cross myself—forehead, chest, shoulder to shoulder. My fingers press hard against my skin, marking the path, before I head through the door.
Outside, the storm has washed the sky clean. Sunlight breaks through in pale bands, catching on wet roofs and pooling in the ruts of the road. Water drips from the eaves in slow, steady taps.
Villagers stand in small clusters near the church steps. Their voices carry low and close, threaded with relief. The carcass of the wolf is gone from the square, but its absence lingers in the space it occupied.
I step down into the yard.
"Raveena."
Radu’s voice finds me before I see him. He stands a few feet away, hair is still damp from the rain, pushed back from his forehead with careless hands. There is dried mud along the hem of his tunic and a scrape blooms along the back of his hand, crusted dark. He comes toward me with an easy stride.
"How are you?" he asks, lowering his voice. "And Elena?"
I fold my hands together to keep them from shaking.
"She is stronger than she looks," I answer. "God does not give trials without strength to bear them. With His will, she will endure this."
He nods, jaw tightening briefly. "She will."
He glances toward the edge of the square, where a dark patch still stains the earth from the morning’s display.
"You have nothing to fear now," he says. "The wolf is dead. We tracked it to the ridge at dawn. It fought, but we finished it."
His mouth curves with quiet pride.
"It won’t come back."
I look at him. Sunlight rests along his cheekbone. There is a bruise forming near his temple. He smells faintly of sweat and wet earth. There is pride in the way he holds himself. Relief. His shoulders sit higher than they did yesterday. He believes what he says.
A warmth moves through me at the sight of it. It catches me off guard, mixed with something that tightens at the base of my throat. I reach out without thinking and smooth a crease from his sleeve. The fabric is rough beneath my fingers, my hand resting there a moment longer than necessary.
"I am proud of you," I say, keeping my voice from breaking. "You did what had to be done."
His brows draw together, surprised by the weight in my voice.
"You look tired," I add. "You should rest."
He studies me a moment longer, searching my face for something I do not name. Then he laughs under his breath and shakes his head.
"I’ll rest when there is no more work," he says lightly. "You worry too much."
Perhaps I do.
I hold his gaze a heartbeat longer than usual, letting my eyes trace the line of him—the scar at his chin, the set of his shoulders, the steady rise and fall of his breath.
He shifts, amused by my silence.
"What is it?" he asks.
I realize I have not withdrawn my hand.
I let it fall.
"Nothing," I answer.
I step back.
The sun glints off the wet ground between us as I commit the shape of him to memory. The light catches in his eyes. There is dirt beneath his nails. His breath smells faintly of smoke.
He shakes his head and smiles again, brushing off the moment as though it were nothing.
"Go home," he says lightly. "Sleep. It’s over."
Behind him, the sun slips free of the clouds for a breath, then hides again.