Chapter Nine
Light touches me first. It rests against my closed eyes and warms them gently.
For a breath, I do not move. I lie still, floating between sleep and waking. The forest lingers there, thick and warm. The press of leaves beneath my back. The weight of arms around me.
I keep my eyes closed. If I do not move, perhaps it will fade.
But my body aches. The soreness rests low in my hips, deep in the tender places between my thighs.
When I shift beneath the blanket, heat spreads where his mouth travelled, where his hands held me down against earth and breath and leaf.
A faint sting grazes the side of my neck where the skin is thinner. I lift my hand and touch it.
Two small crescents meet my fingertips, raised and sore beneath my jaw. When I press them, a pulse leaps under my touch. My breath thins as his mouth returns to me in fragments—the heat, the pull. My stomach knots. My body answers in a way that makes my cheeks burn.
I open my eyes. The rafters above me stand clear and solid. Dust hangs in the pale light. The blanket is twisted at my waist. Something inside me feels altered. A door left unlatched. A window cracked open to air I cannot close out.
Elena’s warmth should be at my back, but my hand meets only cold linen when I reach for her.
A thin sound escapes my throat as I turn.
"Elena?"
The space beside me is empty. The blanket lies folded back.
I push myself upright too quickly. The room tilts. My heart strikes hard against my ribs.
"Elena?"
Silence answers.
I swing my legs over the edge and scramble toward the ladder, nearly missing the first rung. The wood bites into my palms as I descend too fast.
"Mama?" My voice cracks, louder now.
I cross the room in three strides and tear back the curtain.
The bed is empty. Blankets folded. Pillow untouched. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
"No."
I turn toward the hearth. Ash lies cold and gray. The table stands bare. No bowls. No cups. No sound of breath beyond my own.
For a moment, I do not breathe. The room closes in around me. My heart begins to pound so hard it blurs my vision. My fingers clutch at the curtain as though it might steady me.
I let him in.
I have failed.
I let him live and he has taken them.
I stumble backward, turning in place, searching the corners of the room as if they might appear from shadow. My breath tears in and out of me, my pulse roars in my ears.
"Mama!" I cry.
My voice breaks against the walls and falls uselessly to the floor. Cold air slaps my face as I wrench the door open. Light spills across the yard, thin and pale. I step out barefoot into the damp earth.
"Elena!"
My feet carry me forward into the damp grass. Dew soaks the hem of my shift. The village lies awake now—thin smoke rising from chimneys, a bucket knocking somewhere against stone.
I run toward the path, skirts gathered in my fists.
"Mama!"
A door creaks open to my left.
Old Doamn? Marica stands on her threshold, shawl pulled tight around her shoulders. She squints toward me, one hand raised against the light.
"Child," she calls. "Why are you shouting so?"
I turn to her, breath tearing in my chest.
"They’re gone," I say. The words trip over each other. "I can’t find them. Mama and Elena—"
She blinks at me, then lets out a low laugh.
"Gone?" she repeats. "They went to the lake with the others. Washing day."
The word strikes through me.
"They left at first light. You were sleeping like a stone. Your mother said to let you rest."
The air floods back into my lungs.
I sway where I stand.
"To the lake?" I ask, my voice barely holding.
"Where else?" she says, adjusting her shawl. "Half the village is there. Go back inside before you catch cold."
My hands tremble at my sides.
"I—" I swallow. "I must not have heard them leave."
"You look feverish," she says, studying my face. "Are you well?"
I nod quickly.
"Yes. I just need to wake."
The word feels thin on my tongue.
She watches me a moment longer.
"Go back inside," she says. "Wash your face. You look pale."
I incline my head as she closes her door with a soft thud. I stand there another breath, the damp earth cool beneath my feet, the sun pressing faint warmth across my shoulders before I turn and walk back inside the house, pressing my back against the door.
They are alive. Safe. The relief leaves me weak. My head tips back, my eyes fall shut. For a moment I let the air fill my lungs and empty again.
Then the other truth rises.
My hand lifts to my throat, fingers finding the tender skin beneath my ear again. Heat blooms there at the memory. His mouth. His breath. The way my body opened beneath his touch, yielding without command.
I swallow. I went to end him. I see again the silver pressed to his chest, the smoke rising from his skin. I hear my own breath breaking in the dark. The earth beneath my legs, the press of moss and leaf, his hands at my hips.
Shame floods me, burning hotter than the memory. I should recoil from it. Instead, my body remembers first. A dark sweetness curls deep in my belly. My thighs press together without my bidding. Heat gathers there, slow and insistent.
I liked it. The admission burns.
Worse still, the echo of his voice threads through the space behind my ribs.
Come to me.
I jerk my hand away from my throat as if struck.
"No," I whisper.
I push myself off the door. The room tilts for a heartbeat before steadying.
My hands move quickly, almost blindly as I pull my coat from its peg and shrug it on.
The fabric scratches against my heated skin.
From the shelf beside the hearth, the small glass vial waits.
The water inside it shifts and glints as I grab it and head for the door again, steps already carrying me forward.
The church rises before me in a handful of breaths. I cross the threshold without slowing.
Inside, dawn seeps through the high windows in thin bands, laying pale strips across the floor. Candles gutter low along the walls, their flames small and steady. The door closes behind me with a muted thud, and silence settles.
Empty.
My footsteps echo as I move forward. I cross myself once. Twice. Three times. My fingers shake against my brow and chest
The icons line the walls in silent rows, their faces emerging from shadow and gold leaf. Eyes follow me as I pass. Their gazes settle on my shoulders, my hands, my throat. The air feels heavier beneath them. My breath shortens.
I reach the basin.
The water rests still in its shallow bowl. My reflection floats there, wavering. I uncork the vial with clumsy fingers. Glass gives a faint click against stone as I dip it beneath the surface. Ripples spread across the surface, breaking the image that floats there.
My own face wavers and reforms.
The girl in the water looks flushed. Colour rests high in her cheeks. Her skin gleams faintly in the morning light. I search for sickness and find none. My lips part slightly. My eyes shine too brightly.
They slide to my neck. With shaking hands, I sweep my hair aside. The skin there rises pale from the water’s shimmer. Two small marks darken it, barely there. Anyone else would pass over them without a second glance.
I cannot. They burn under my touch.
"Child."
The sound breaks the stillness.
My hand jerks. The vial slips from my fingers and strikes the stone, glass scattering across the floor.
Popa Vasile stands a few paces behind, hands folded into the sleeves of his robe. Morning light gathers along the edge of his cassock.
"I—" My voice falters. Heat floods my face. "Forgive me, Father. I only came to take holy water. We had none left."
I crouch, reaching for the broken pieces frantically. The shards gleam faintly against the floor, and one slices across my skin before I feel it. A biting sting follows, making me hiss as a bead of red wells up and spills on my fingertip.
"Stop."
Before I can gather another shard, the priest's hand closes around my wrist, lifting me from the floor as though I weigh nothing at all. I rise with him, the broken glass left scattered between us.
"You will only hurt yourself further."
My finger throbs. Blood slides down to my knuckle.
His thumb presses lightly against the base of it before he reaches into his pocket and draws out a square of linen. He wraps the cloth around my finger carefully, pressing it in place. The linen drinks the red instantly.
"Hold still," he murmurs.
I do.
His hands linger, adjusting the knot, his thumb brushing the inside of my palm as he ties it. I feel the warmth of his skin through mine.
I keep my eyes lowered, watching the white cloth turn red.
"I did not mean to make such a mess," I say quietly.
"It is only glass."
His gaze lifts to my face. I feel it before I meet it. It rests there, heavy and searching. My cheeks burn with guilt. Shame crawls up my throat and settles there, choking me. I think of the forest. Of my skin beneath another’s mouth. Of the marks at my throat.
I draw my shawl closer without meaning to.
"You rise early."
"Yes, Father."
"For prayer?"
"For cleansing," I answer before I can stop myself.
The word hangs between us.
His fingers tighten faintly around mine before he releases them and moves toward the small cabinet near the altar. I remain where I am, while water spreads thin and silent across the stone. My hand hovers at my chest, fingers curled over the wound. Blood warms the cloth, sticky against my skin.
Popa Vasile disappears behind the icon screen. I hear the faint scrape of wood, the soft thud of a cabinet closing. When he returns, he carries another small bottle, its glass catching the morning light in a pale shimmer. He stops close and places it carefully into my uninjured hand.
"Here."
He takes my wounded hand again, gently lifting it to inspect the cloth. The blood has slowed. A thin line remains bright along the cut.
"You must keep it tight," he instructs, adjusting the wrap with steady fingers. "Do not let it reopen."
"Yes, Father," I murmur.