Chapter Ten #5
Then I step away. The yard is nearly empty now. The last few villagers are already halfway down the path. I search for Mama’s familiar figure, for Elena’s pale hair among the retreating shapes.
They are already gone. They did not wait for me.
A strange twist tightens low in my chest, not deep enough to wound, but present all the same.
The last of the light bleeds from the sky as I walk home alone, the damp scent of mud and extinguished fire clinging to the air behind me. By the time I reach our door, the sun is nearly gone. I lift the latch and slip inside, closing it behind me with more force than I intend.
The slap lands before I can draw breath.
It cracks across my cheek, bright and blinding. My head snaps to the side. I gasp, hand flying to my cheek, heat blooming beneath my skin.
"Mama—"
Another strike. Then another.
Her palm connects with my face, my shoulder, the side of my head. Not wild—precise. Furious.
I stagger back against the table, raising my arms to shield myself. "Mama, what—what have I done?"
She is shaking. Not just with anger—something deeper, frayed and raw. Her eyes are bright and wet, her breath coming too fast.
"You lied," she spits. "In front of everyone."
The word hits harder than her hand.
"You lied before the priest."
Her fingers seize my sleeve, pulling me forward again. "What were you thinking?" she demands, her voice cracking into hysteria. "Preaching in his place. Deciding who is worthy. Do you understand what you have done?"
"I—I only wanted to help," I stammer. "They were going to hurt her. I didn’t mean—"
"You did not mean?" she echoes, incredulous. "You humiliated us."
Her grip tightens. "You humiliated him."
The weight of that lands somewhere deep and cold.
"I know you lied," she continues, her voice lowering, trembling now with something like fear. "Neaga did not confide in you. I saw your face. You thought of it in that moment."
I open my mouth, but no words come fast enough to defend myself.
"I only wanted to stop them," I manage at last. "I didn’t mean to dishonour anyone."
Mama shakes her head, as though I have said something childish and foolish. "You do not understand what you risk," she says, her voice cracking again. "You think kindness protects you. It does not."
Her hand rises again, but this time it falters midair.
"You put yourself above order," she says. "Above your place."
Those words sting worse than the rest.
My gaze shifts past her.
Elena stands near the back wall, half in shadow, her hands clasped before her. She has not moved. Her eyes meet mine for only a moment before she looks down, as if the sight of it is too much.
Mama does not soften. Her anger does not fade; it reshapes into something colder.
"Let us pray," she says, her voice trembling still, "that no further harm comes of this."
I remain where I am, one hand pressed to my cheek, the other braced against the floor. My ears are still ringing. Her eyes flash toward the door, as if the village itself might still be listening.
"We are fortunate," her mouth tightens in a thin line, "if Radu does not hear of this and reconsider what sort of wife he is to take."
"I did not—" I begin.
"You did not think," she interrupts. "That is the trouble. You never think beyond the moment."
Her hands twist into her apron, knuckles white.
"It is time you grew. Time you ceased behaving like a spoiled and heedless child. The world is not a place for your impulsive mercies."
Each word strikes as cleanly as her hand had.
"We are fortunate," she repeats, more quietly now, and I hear it—the fear beneath the fury. "Fortunate that Father did not rebuke you openly. Lucky the village chose relief over suspicion."
Her breath shudders.
"You will repent," she says at last. "You will pray for forgiveness for your pride and for the lie you have spoken."
I nod automatically, though my thoughts are a storm I cannot quiet.
"Yes, Mama."
She steps back as though the sight of me unsettles her. Her fingers rise automatically to trace the sign of the cross over her chest.
"Lord have mercy," she murmurs. "Lord have mercy on this house."
She turns away, already whispering prayers under her breath, words quick and urgent, as though she is trying to patch something invisible that I have torn.
I remain on the floor.
My cheek burns. My head throbs faintly as her words echo and collide, scattering my thoughts in every direction.
I press my palm against the packed earth, grounding myself in its cool solidity.
My mind circles back to Neaga kneeling in the dirt, to the way the water soaked through her dress, to Ilinca’s wide, unwavering eyes.
I would say it again, I think. Even now.
A quiet rustle draws my attention. Elena steps from the shadows. She does not speak. Her face is pale, her eyes uncertain. She hesitates only a moment before extending her hand toward me.
I take it. Her fingers are warm as she pulls me gently to my feet.
Neither of us looks at the other for long.
We move toward the ladder without a word.
The house has gone dim; the last light of evening has slipped away entirely.
The dark gathers quickly beneath the roof, swallowing corners and shadows until everything feels close and small.
We climb the ladder in silence.
The dark settles thick around us, closing in until only the faint outline of Elena’s shape remains beside me. Below, Mama’s prayers have faded into silence.
I lie still for a long time, my cheek still aching where her hand struck me. When I press my face into the wool beneath my head, the skin throbs anew.
"Elena," I whisper at last.
She does not answer immediately, but I know she is awake. I can hear the shallow rhythm of her breathing, too careful to be sleep.
"I did not mean harm," my voice is barely more than air. "You know that. I only wanted to help her. They would have driven her out. You saw it."
I turn my head toward her shadow. "You understand, don’t you?"
There is a pause.
When she speaks, her voice is low.
"Your mother is right."
Her voice lands between us like a door closing.
"We are not children anymore, Raveena. We cannot act as though we are."
I swallow. "I was not acting—"
"You always do this," she cuts in, colder now.
The words catch me off guard.
"You step forward," she continues, her voice tightening, "you speak, and suddenly everyone is looking at you."
I blink into the dark. "I didn’t—"
"You can’t help it," she says. "You never could."
There is no accusation in her tone, not quite. Something more complicated. Something that twists.
"But you cannot do that now," she cuts in, her tone firmer now. "You cannot lie in front of everyone and expect nothing to follow."
She shifts again, turning her back slightly, not fully, but enough. The space between our pallets feels wider than it ever has.
"If we want things to return to order," she goes on, her voice clipped now, almost urgent, "we must obey. We must trust those placed above us. Not embarrass them."
Silence falls again.
I stare at the low beam above us, though I cannot see it. The space between us feels wider than the width of the pallet. I had expected comfort. A hand. A whispered reassurance.
Instead, I find only distance.
"I thought—" I begin, but the words collapse before they form.
Elena turns onto her side, away from me. "Sleep," she says quietly. "Tomorrow will be better."
Her breathing evens out soon after.
My throat tightens.
I pull the blanket closer around my shoulders, but it does nothing to warm the hollow opening inside my chest. Their words circle, overlapping, tightening until I do not know what shape I am meant to take anymore.
A tear slips into my hairline. Then another.
I turn my face toward the wall so Elena will not hear, but my breathing betrays me, hitching despite my efforts.
I press my lips together to keep from making a sound, but the tears slip out anyway.
They soak into the wool beneath my cheek, leaving dark patches that no one will see.
I think of Neaga kneeling in the mud, water soaking through her dress. I think of Ilinca’s wide, steady eyes, of Popa Vasile’s gaze, of Mama’s hand.
I think of the forest.
The way his hand brushed my cheek, my throat, tracing as if he were reading something written there.
The heat of his body near mine. The memory unfurls, dangerously so.
The slow drag of his fingers along my throat, my collarbone, the inside of my wrist. The way my body had answered before my mind could speak.
The hush of his voice near my ear. The ache that had bloomed low and molten, spreading through me until I could no longer tell where fear ended and want began.
My heart beats faster beneath the blanket.
I press my lips together, confused by the softness of it, by the way it rises in me even now, threading itself through fear and anger alike.
Mama’s fury. The priest’s command. Neaga’s bowed head.
They tangle with the memory of fingers at my waist, of a voice low against my ear, and I cannot separate one from the other.
If that was darkness, why did it feel like being seen?
If this is light, why does it bruise?
My eyes close as if that might banish the thought, but it lingers. The ache in my chest swells and then dulls, swells and dulls again, until exhaustion begins to press its weight over everything.
Somewhere between waking and sleep, when the edges of the world begin to blur and thought loosens its hold, I think I hear it.
Do not hide from the light because they try to shun you away from it.
The words brush against my thoughts like breath at my ear.
You were not made to shrink.
My pulse stirs weakly in answer, but I am too tired to open my eyes. The dark deepens, and sleep claims me before I can decide whether the voice is memory, dream, or something waiting just beyond the walls of this house.