Chapter Ten #2
"We should go now, before night falls again."
"She must explain herself."
My heart begins to pound.
This is wrong. It is unfolding too quickly, like cloth pulled from a loom before the threads are tied.
I step forward without thinking.
"She is ill," I say, my voice thinner than I intend. "She can barely walk. She has not come because she cannot."
Several heads turn toward me.
Petru frowns. "She could have sent word."
"She sent the girl once," someone mutters. "The girl stood outside like a stray."
Their words layer over mine until I cannot find them anymore.
I push to my feet. "Wait—"
No one hears me.
"We cannot just—" I try again, louder.
Mama catches my sleeve. "Raveena," she warns.
"They’re frightened," I say, turning to her. "She is ill. She can barely walk—"
"Then she should not have isolated herself," her voice tightens. "This is for her own good."
Elena is already standing. Her face is pale, but she does not resist when the people around her begin to move.
"It will clear her name," she murmurs.
Popa Vasile’s gaze rests on me for a moment. Not unkind. Not kind either.
"We will not harm her," he says calmly. "If she has nothing to hide, she has nothing to fear."
His expression is grave, almost paternal. But his eyes are bright.
"We go in prayer," he says as he reaches the entrance. "Not in anger."
The doors are thrown open. Daylight floods in, the congregation spilling out after him like a tide. I step after them, heart pounding, the mark on my neck burning as if it knows what is coming.
"Please," I say once more, but the word dissolves into the roar of boots on earth.
The path to Neaga’s hut feels shorter than it ever has. Or perhaps it is only that we move too fast. People glance at each other now, at windows, chimneys. At shadows that have always been there.
"What if there are more?"
"What if it has already marked another house?"
Each question feeds the next, and my mind races uselessly. This is my fault. The sheep. The forest. The blade in my hand. The mark on my neck.
If I had ended it—
My stomach twists so tightly I nearly stumble.
Neaga’s hut comes into view at the edge of the clearing, low and crooked, smoke barely threading from the chimney. The crowd slows—but only because it must compress itself around the narrow fence. Someone pushes the gate open in a shriek.
"Look," a man near the front stops short.
Above Neaga’s door, tied carefully between two nails, hangs a small wreath.
Dried flowers. Pale and brittle. Sprigs of thyme. A twist of woven grass. A few faded leaves tucked in with deliberate care. It looks like something meant to welcome spring. Harmless. My father used to make them smaller than that.
"Witch," someone breathes.
The word lands heavy and clear. It spreads instantly.
"Witch!"
Men surge forward. Someone kicks at the bundle, scattering dirt. A child begins crying somewhere behind me. A stone hits the side of the hut with a hard crack.
"Come out!" Petru shouts.
"Show yourself!"
Fists pound against the wooden door. The thin planks rattle in their frame.
"Come out, Neaga!"
My heart slams against my ribs.
The shouting grows uglier now. The word strigoi slips between the screams, then curse, then witch again, louder each time, until it is no longer accusation but verdict.
The door trembles before it opens, just enough to reveal a narrow strip of darkness inside. And there—small, barefoot in the doorway—stands little Ilinca. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide, too large for her face, reflecting the mob like trapped light.
For one heartbeat, the shouting falters. Then the noise swells again, harsher than before. Ilinca flinches at the movement if not the sound. Her gaze flickers across the faces, confused, frightened. She presses one hand against the doorframe as if to steady herself.
"Where is your mother?" a man shouts, stepping forward.
She does not answer. She cannot. She stares at the moving mouths, the raised hands, the twisting faces.
"See?" someone cries. "See how she stares!"
"She mocks us!"
I push forward without thinking. "Stop. You’re frightening her!" I shout, finally forcing the words out right as a stone strikes the doorframe inches from her hand.
Ilinca jerks back and for a single heartbeat, her eyes find mine. Then, as the noise crashes forward again, she pulls the door closed. The wood slams shut, the bolt dropping from inside with a small, final sound.
The mob erupts, the restraint only held by a thread snapping completely.
Hands pound against wood. Fists slam against the fence.
"She hides!"
"She refuses!"
The silence after the door slams lasts only a heartbeat. Then the latch shifts again, and this time, Neaga stands there.
She looks frailer than she ever has, thin shoulders wrapped in a faded shawl, skin pale and stretched thin over bone. Her hair hangs loose, uncombed. She squints at the crowd as though trying to make sense of it. Ilinca clings to the back of her skirt, half-hidden behind her hip.
"What is this?" Neaga's voice comes hoarse. "Why are you shouting?"
"Why weren’t you at Mass?" Petru demands, stepping so close his boots nearly touch her threshold.
Neaga blinks at him. "I am ill," she says plainly.
"You could have sent the girl."
"She never sends anyone."
"I can barely walk to the well," Neaga replies, irritation flickering across her face. "You expect me to kneel for hours?"
"That did not stop you tending Irina’s corpse," someone snaps.
Neaga stiffens. "Irina was my friend."
"And God is not?" a woman calls harshly.
A murmur swells.
Neaga’s mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. "I pray at home," she says. "I do not need to kneel here to be heard."
The answer causes a ripple of outrage.
"She refuses the Church!"
"She thinks herself above us!"
Petru points toward the wreath above the door. "And that?" he demands. "What is that?"
Neaga glances upward, confused. "That?" she says. "Dry herbs."
Her tone is dismissive. Almost bored.
"For fever. For flies. For whatever else wishes to cross my door. Protection."
"Protection from what?" Petru presses.
"From foolishness, perhaps," she answers, too quick.
A ripple of outrage surges through the crowd.
"Witch."
The word is no longer whispered.
Neaga stiffens. "Do not be ridiculous," she snaps. "It is thyme and sage. Nothing more."
"Pagan ways," someone shouts.
"C?lu?ar tricks."
Ilinca presses her face into her mother’s side, fingers digging into fabric. Her small shoulders shake.
"Your child is unclean," a woman cries.
Neaga’s composure cracks. "Do not speak of my daughter."
The yard tightens around them.
"Expel her," someone shouts over the others.
The word lands heavy.
Expel.
"Yes."
"She brings misfortune."
"The sheep were found near here—"
"She called it."
"I did no such thing!" Neaga shouts, panic threading through her voice now. "I have done nothing."
"Send her away."
"Drive her out before worse comes."
Neaga retreats fully into the doorway now, one hand braced against the frame as if it might hold the weight of them back. Ilinca disappears further behind her.
The crowd surges forward again—hands lifting, voices overlapping, no longer seeking answers but demanding punishment.
My chest feels hollow.
This is slipping. This is no longer about herbs or Mass or sheep. This is hunger.
And it wants a body.
Before I understand what I am doing, I push through the press of shoulders and arms.
"Wait!"
The word tears out of me. I shove harder, forcing myself to the front until I stand between them and the doorway.
"She has been wanting to come back," I say quickly, breathless. "To the church. She told me herself."
The noise falters. The shouting frays into uneven breaths, into the rustle of skirts and the scrape of boots shifting against dirt. Neaga looks at me, startled, as every face turns toward me.
Petru’s mouth is half open, mid-accusation.
Mama’s fingers clutch at her shawl. Elena stares at me as if I have stepped into fire without noticing.
I feel their weight press against my skin.
My heart slams so hard I feel it in my teeth.
My palms are damp. My voice feels too small for what I have started.
But I do not step back. If I stop now, they will tear her apart.
"She has been afraid," I repeat, my voice trembling despite myself. "Afraid you would not welcome her."
My breath comes too fast, but the words keep coming. They tumble over one another before I can measure them.
"Have we not prayed all day?" I ask. "Have we not begged God for mercy?"
The silence tightens.
"If we ask for mercy," I continue, louder now, "should we not give it?"
A few heads shift. Some lower their gaze.
"She is ill," I press on. "She is alone. Did not the Lord say we must seek the lost sheep? That we must carry it back ourselves?"
I hear my own voice and barely recognize it.
"If evil seeks weakness," I say, echoing the priest’s words, "then perhaps it seeks the cracks we make when we turn on one another."
Petru shifts his weight. Someone mutters, "She is right…"
"We call this a test," I press on, seizing the space before it closes. "We say this is a blessing meant to bring us together."
My voice steadies.
"Then let us be together."
The wind moves through the torn herbs at our feet, scattering brittle leaves against boots. I take a breath that feels like stepping off a cliff.
"She wants her daughter under God’s protection. She wants Ilinca baptized."
The lie burns hot in my mouth, yet not hotter than their gazes.
I lift my eyes despite myself—and meet them.
Mama’s brow drawn tight, searching my face as if she does not recognize me. Elena’s lips, parted slightly, her stillness too deliberate. Radu staring, uncertain, something flickering behind his eyes that I cannot name.
It tightens something in my chest. For a moment, my voice threatens to falter.