Chapter Ten #3
But I do not let it. I hold myself steady, forcing my gaze forward again, away from them, away from the doubt rising like a tide.
A man clears his throat. "She wants that?"
"Yes," I answer without hesitation.
"She told you this?" another presses.
"She did."
The words land gentler, differently than before. Someone nods.
"That is what we want for all our children," a woman murmurs. "Is it not?"
The silence stretches.
It tightens around us like a rope drawn slowly taut.
Neaga inhales.
For a moment, I think she will refuse me. I see the pride flicker in her jaw, the old stubbornness that has always set her apart. Then her gaze finds mine.
It holds.
There is something there—shock, yes. Relief. Gratefulness.
Very slowly, she lowers her eyes.
"It is true. I wish to return," she says at last.
I see the tightness at the corners of her eyes, the way her jaw clenches as she speaks. Her hand lifts slowly as she crosses herself. Forehead. Chest. Shoulder. Shoulder.
The movement is careful, almost exaggerated.
Ilinca peers from behind her skirt, wide-eyed as her mother bows her head further. "If God will have me," she says, "I will kneel."
Relief floods through me so suddenly my knees nearly give way. Thank God. It might actually work.
Silence settles again, heavy and expectant. No one dares speak first. No one dares break whatever fragile thing has formed between us.
The edge of the mob dulls. I turn, finally, toward Popa Vasile.
"Father," I say, my voice steadier now, "would it not be right to baptize them? To welcome them fully?"
The phrase feels almost too fitting.
"Does not God forgive those who ask?" I press, softer now. "Does He not rejoice when one returns?"
Popa Vasile does not answer. He stands very still, hands folded before him, gaze lowered as if in contemplation.
Then he looks up. His eyes find mine, and something in them makes my breath falter. It is subtle, so much that I almost think I imagine it.
But it is there, unmistakable. A flicker of anger that does not belong to this moment.
I shiver. Have I gone too far? Have I stepped beyond where I was meant to stand?
But it is gone as fast as it came, his expression smoothing as he steps forward. The crowd parts for him as one, creating a narrow path through bodies and breath and tension. All eyes fix on him. Even the wind seems to still as he stops a few paces from Neaga’s threshold.
At last, he inclines his head.
"If that is truly your wish," he says, "the Church does not refuse a soul that seeks to return."
A collective breath releases from the crowd.
"I will baptize you," he says to Neaga, "and your child. If you stand before God in sincerity."
Neaga bows her head deeper. Her voice comes humble now. Lowered.
"It is what I want. I wish to be cleansed," she says. "My child as well."
Ilinca presses her face into her mother’s skirts, peering out with wide, wet eyes.
Popa Vasile studies them for a moment longer than necessary. Then he nods once.
"So it shall be."
The air loosens. The violence drains from the crowd, replaced by something almost triumphant, as though a victory has been won without blood.
For a moment, I almost sag with gratitude.
It worked. It is done. But when Popa vasile turns toward me, the relief curdles. His expression is calm. Gracious, even.
"Your zeal does you credit, Raveena," he says, loud enough for all to hear. "It is a beautiful thing to see such devotion in the young."
A few approving glances land on me, making me lower my eyes.
"Thank you, Father," I murmur.
His gaze does not leave me.
"There is," he continues gently, "great power in speaking for another soul."
My pulse stutters.
"But," he continues gently, "guidance of the flock rests with the shepherd."
The words are soft. So soft that anyone listening might mistake them for kindness.
"It is not for lambs to instruct the pasture," he adds, almost lightly.
A faint ripple of laughter—uneasy—moves through those nearest him.
"Yes, Father," I say, my face burning suddenly.
His eyes linger a heartbeat longer—long enough that I feel the warning beneath the blessing.
Does he know? The lie I spoke still trembles inside me like a trapped bird.
He cannot know. He cannot possibly He cannot possibly—
"And yet," he finishes, his tone smoothing again, "may your devotion be a lesson to us all."
I lower my gaze and step back into the crowd, letting the murmur swallow me, grateful only that the fire has been banked before it could consume them.
A voice rises from the back.
"The sun is setting."
Heads turn instinctively toward the horizon. The light has shifted without my noticing—warmer now, brushing the tops of the huts in gold.
"We won’t have time to reach the church," someone says.
A murmur of unease follows.
"We cannot let night fall with her unwashed," Petru insists. "Not with what is happening."
Unwashed. As though Neaga stands before us coated in something foul.
Popa Vasile lifts a hand.
"We will not wait until morning," he says calmly.
The finality in his voice silences any further debate.
"Fetch water," he orders.
Two boys bolt instantly toward the well. A man follows with a bucket swinging from his hand.
"It will be done here," Popa Vasile continues, stepping closer to the doorway. "Before darkness."
The yard tightens again—not in fury this time, but in anticipation.
He pauses beneath the doorframe, his gaze lifting to the the wreath crown.
"Now that you return to God," his tone is gentle, "you have no need for this."
With a softness that makes my stomach twist, he gestures toward it.
"As long as you stand in His light, no other protection is required."
I look at Neaga. For the first time since she agreed, something falters in her face. A pause too long to be harmless.
Popa Vasile turns his gaze on her fully.
"We will burn it. As a sign."
The word sign echoes unpleasantly in my chest. He inclines his head toward her door.
"Fetch a torch."
Neaga’s eyes meet mine. In hers, I see it clearly now. Hesitation. A flicker of resistance. But she nods, and without another word, steps back into the hut. Ilinca lingers only a second longer before slipping inside after her.
The yard hums with movement as water is carried back, as people shift for better sight, as the light bleeds slowly downward toward evening.
Neaga returns after a long minute, the torch burning low and steady in her hand. The flame trembles in the falling light, thin and bright, bending in the wind before straightening again. Its glow catches in her eyes, gilds the hollows of her cheeks.
She holds it out, and Popa Vasile takes it without touching her fingers, the light flares briefly between them.
He nods once toward the door.
"The crown."
The wreath still clings to the nail above the threshold, hanging crooked, stubborn in its place.
Neaga's fingers rise, then pause mid-air, before she reaches up and takes it down. The nail scrapes as the woven stems come free, as bits of dust fall in a thin drift. It looks smaller now. Frailer. No more than twigs and faded blossoms bound by thread. She steps forward and places the crown into Popa Vasile’s waiting hand.
He lifts it high enough for all to see. The torchlight dances over the brittle leaves, catching the pale underside of sage, the curled tips of thyme, the thin ribbon woven through it like a vein.
For a moment, it looks almost holy.
Then Popa Vasile lowers the flame, and the fire kisses the edge of the wreath.
It hesitates only an instant before it catches.
The dry stems flare bright, orange devouring brown, petals blackening in a breath.
Smoke rises stinging the air. The woven circle curls inward as it burns, collapsing in on itself.
A few in the crowd murmur prayers. "Praise God," someone whispers. "Amen," another answers as the priest releases what remains, the burning wreath falling to the ground in a brief shower of sparks.
It hisses against the damp earth, shrivels, turns to fragile ash.
The last thread of smoke thins into the evening air, and Popa Vasile lowers the torch, his face lit gold by the dying flame. The crowd watches him as though he has already delivered them from something terrible.
"We will now proceed to the sacrament," he says, as if the fire had been only a necessary prelude. "Bring the water."
His assistant steps forward, cradling a large wooden basin against his chest. The water inside trembles with each careful step, catching the sinking light in fractured glints.
He lifts it high before the priest, arms straining slightly beneath its weight, presenting it like an offering laid at an altar.
The murmuring dies. The yard grows still again.
Popa Vasile dips his fingers into the basin.
The surface breaks soundlessly around his skin, small ripples widening outward.
He lifts his wet hand and traces the sign of the cross above the water, droplets falling back into it in small beads.
"In the name of the Father," he murmurs.
His fingers return to the basin. "And of the Son.
" He removes the small metal cross from his chest and lowers it, submerging it fully before lifting it again, shining and slick. "And of the Holy Spirit."
The words settle over us like a veil drawn carefully into place.
The assistant’s arms tremble but he does not lower the basin, while the priest turns at last toward Neaga. He does not speak. He simply looks at her and waits.
For a brief moment, confusion flickers across Neaga’s face. She remains standing, the faintest crease forming between her brows, as if unsure what is required of her. No one instructs her. No one gestures. The priest stands before her, eyes fixed, expectant.
The crowd leans forward without meaning to. The weight of that expectation gathers, invisible but undeniable.
Neaga inhales. Then, carefully, she bends.