Chapter Eight
The table creaks as we settle around it.
Candles burn low in their clay holders, their light bending and straightening with each small draft. It rests on our faces, leaving the corners of the room in shadow.
Mama tears her bread into small pieces before dipping it into her bowl. She does it the same way as each night, pressing her thumb along the crust to soften it. She passes me a piece without looking up, and I feel the warmth linger where her skin brushed mine.
Elena holds her spoon loosely. She lifts it, lowers it, swallows. Her jaw works, though I doubt she tastes anything. Her eyes remain fixed on the grain of the table.
The spoons mark the silence between us. Scrape. Lift. Swallow.
I eat slowly, chewing until nothing remains, tasting each mouthful fully before the next. The broth carries thyme and onion; the bread leaves a faint sweetness on my tongue. I listen to Mama’s breath. I watch the rise of Elena’s shoulders.
The basin hangs where it always has, above the hearth. Firelight slips across its curve and shivers there. I feel its pull without meaning to, my gaze drifting toward it, catching. For a breath, I see only our shapes warped in its metal—three heads bent close, light bending around us.
My throat tightens. I look back to my bowl.
I reach for Mama’s cup and rise to refill it when I see it empty. The water pours in a thin stream, catching the candlelight before settling. I set it back before her without a word.
She nods once.
A strand of Elena’s hair has fallen loose across her cheek. I lean toward her and tuck it gently behind her ear, my fingers lingering briefly at her temple. Her skin is warm. She does not look up.
"You should rest," I say quietly.
She does not answer, but her shoulder leans faintly against mine.
The candle flame wavers, then steadies. The basin holds its silence.
We finish and clear the table without speaking.
Bowls are stacked. Mama pinches the last candle between her fingers; it dies with a thin curl of smoke. One remains near the hearth, its flame narrow and patient.
Elena climbs the ladder first, her steps slow, the boards answering under her weight.
I follow. The loft is close and warm with breath.
We lie side by side, until she turns toward the wall and curls in on herself.
I pull the wool higher over her shoulder.
Her hand finds the blanket and holds it there.
Mama settles behind the curtain in her small chamber, the fabric whispering once more along its cord.
Obscurity gathers close, but my eyes remain open.
Above us, the boards tick faintly as they cool. Wind presses once against the roof, then slips away. Somewhere beyond the walls, a dog barks and another answers, endless.
I wait.
My face turns to the small opening near the roof; a thread of moonlight rests there, faint and cold.
I see my father in the dark as I once saw him in the trees—moving ahead of me, never hurried. His hand would close over mine when I wandered too close to the traps.
"The woods take when it’s time," he had said, loosening the iron teeth from a rabbit’s leg. "We do not beg them to hurry. We do not beg them to spare."
The words settle in me now, steady as bone. I press my palm flat against my chest and feel my heart beat beneath it. It does not falter.
Light flared from my hands last night; I felt it rise, fierce and clean as it tore him from me and left me standing. I do not know where it came from, only that it answered.
The travellers’ voices return to me, their words carrying the cadence of the old paths.
Silver defeats the strigoi.
I picture my father's blade.
The house settles.
Mama’s breathing deepens beyond the curtain until it grows slow and even. Beside me, Elena settles into a soft, steady cadence near my ear.
Outside, silence.
I count the space between one breath and the next.
When I am certain they sleep, my arm slips free from beneath the blanket.
The floorboards cool my feet as I kneel and reach beneath the bed.
The cloth bundle rests where I left it. I draw it out and unwrap it slowly.
The silver blade catches what little light remains, a thin gleam along its edge.
I close my fingers around the hilt, strangely feeling heavier than I remember.
I kneel there for a moment longer, looking at Elena. Then I bow my head.
"Keep her safe," my whisper comes. "Let this end clean."
The ladder does not creak this time. I climb down slowly, the dagger held close in its sheath. The fire has thinned again, its glow low and red, the house holding the last of the night in its beams.
For a moment, I pause before the wool curtain and listen. Mama’s breathing moves steady behind it, undisturbed as I lift the edge of the fabric and slip inside.
She lies on her side, hands tucked beneath her cheek. Firelight grazes her face in a soft line, tracing the hollows beneath her eyes, the faint crease at the corner of her mouth, the strands of gray threading through her dark hair.
I stand there longer than I mean to.
"Guard her. Keep her from harm."
My voice dissolves into the dark.
My fingers draw the blanket higher over her shoulder, the wool dragging in a light rasp; I smooth it down, careful not to wake her.
My lips linger on her hairline. She smells of smoke and rosemary and something that has always been hers alone.
I draw it in, slow and deep, as though I could carry it with me.
"Forgive me," I whisper against her temple.
She shifts faintly beneath the cover, but her eyes remain closed. A sigh leaves her, her hand moving once, then settling again.
I straighten and step back, the curtain falling closed between us.
At the hearth, I kneel once more and feed the embers thin sticks of wood.
Flame catches slowly, then steadies, rising in quiet tongues; I place thicker logs beside it, close enough to hold until morning.
The scripture hangs just above, its leather is cracked where Mama’s fingers have pressed it most. I take it down and hold it close.
The latch lifts with a soft click when I open the door.
I part it only wide enough to step through, pausing briefly to draw a pinch of salt from the small pouch at my waist. White grains scatter over wood and earth as I let it fall in a thin line across the threshold.
My hand lingers a moment above it, before I step over and pull the door closed.
A few windows glow faintly, then dim as I pass.
The well, the barn, the dark shape of the granary—each falls behind me.
My feet move quickly over the packed earth while the houses thin and the path narrows.
The trees gather ahead, and for a breath, the wind moves through the leaves in a long, low murmur as I still at their edge.
I cross myself once, slow and deliberate.
"In Your name."
From my pocket, I draw the mugwort. The leaves are crushed already from the press of my palm.
I rub them hard against my wrists, grinding them into the skin until their scent rises, then across the hollow at my throat, down the centre of my chest beneath the cloth, letting the oil cling there before I step in.
The forest closes around me, the ground softened from the storm prompting my boots to sink slightly with each step. Branches shift overhead, shedding droplets that strike my shoulders.
I walk.
The path does not matter; my feet carry me where they must. I feel the pull of it low in my body, like a cord wound tight and drawing me forward.
Anger burns steady beneath my ribs, replacing the fear.
"Come out," I call into the dark.
My voice travels between trunks and returns to me thinner.
"Show yourself."
Only the wind answers, threading through leaves. An owl hoots somewhere to my right as I move deeper, the silver weight steady at my side.
"You think I will wait?" The words tear at my throat. "You think I will hide in my bed?"
My breath fogs before me and vanishes, and still, silence presses in.
I walk faster.
"You wanted me. Here I am."
The trees thin, then gather again. My heart beats hard, but it does not falter.
Another step, when a branch snaps behind me.
He stands near, one shoulder resting against a trunk as though he has always been there. Moonlight slips between the branches and settles across him in thin bands, on his folded arms, on the faintest curve that touches his mouth.
"I am pleased," he murmurs, his voice threading through the leaves. "You return to places you are warned against."
My heart lurches, hard enough to sting.
"I told you, do not come back."
He straightens from the tree and steps forward.
"Unless you wish to be taken."
The word settles between us. His gaze moves over me slowly—my hands, my throat, the place where the mugwort stains my skin. His smile deepens, almost tender.
"And yet, here you stand."
He presses closer, unhurried.
"Perhaps you do wish it."
Heat rushes up my neck, still I bare my teeth at him.
"I will never wish to be taken by you," I hiss. "You foul thing. You feed on blood and call it pleasure."
The forest stills. He laughs, and the sound does not echo. It sinks into the earth.
"Foul," he repeats, as if tasting it.
He circles me at a distance, unhurried.
"And what are you," he asks, "when winter comes and the pig is slaughtered?"
His eyes catch the light when he turns. They burn faintly, steady and unreadable.
"When you press down until its kicking stops, when the blood runs warm between your fingers—what name do you give yourself then?"
His gaze does not leave mine.
"You salt its flesh," his voice murmurs. "You hang it from the rafters. You eat it until nothing remains but bone."
He stops in front of me, eyes resting on the dagger at my waist.
"Does the pig call you filthy as its throat opens?"
My grip tightens.