Chapter One
Light presses against my eyelids before I am fully awake. Warmth seeps through the wool beneath my cheek, the scent of hay and animals thick in my lungs. For a moment I lie suspended between sleep and waking, body wrapped in a lingering soreness that does not belong here.
Then, memory flickers, and my eyes open.
The barn roof stretches above me.
My chest tightens. I do not remember returning. I remember his mouth. His hands. The trees spinning above me. The promise in his voice. Nothing after.
"Raveena," Mama’s voice cuts through the haze, close beside me. "Up now. You’ve slept long enough."
Her hand is already reaching for my shoulder, brisk, practical. I push myself upright too quickly, the world tilting for an instant. Heat rushes through me, pooling beneath my skin, settling at my throat and chest in a slow burn that makes my breath catch. I swallow it down.
Mama is frowning slightly, her eyes on my hair. "Your braid has come loose," she says. "Look at you. All tangled. Tie it properly before anyone sees."
My fingers fly to the back of my head. The plait hangs completely undone, strands slipping wildly across my shoulders. I nod, murmuring something obedient, and begin to gather the hair with hands that do not feel entirely my own. Twist, pull, weave. The familiar pattern anchors my breath.
Beneath the linen at my throat, the skin feels hot.
My throat burns faintly where I was marked, the place sensitive beneath my fingertips.
Lower, the spot above my heart aches in a slow pulse.
I pull my collar, adjust the folds of linen until nothing shows.
My fingers pause over the skin anyway, tracing the invisible path of what remains.
The tenderness answers, though it does not sting the way it once did.
I rise to my feet. The ground feels unsteady for a moment, before the barn comes into focus around me: the other women rise from their blankets, skirts rustling, quiet voices exchanging morning greetings.
Smoke seeps faintly through the open slats.
Somewhere a cow shifts, hooves thudding against wood. Everything is the same.
Doamn? Marica and Doamn? Ileana stand close to Radu’s mother, their hands folded, their smiles easy as they speak to her.
Their voices carry softly, full of praise, of gentle concern.
Then Radu's mother turns away, called by someone across the barn, and the smiles slip. Marica leans in immediately, her mouth tightening as she whispers something into Ileana’s ear.
Ileana’s eyes flick after Radu’s mother, narrow and bright, and she lets out a short breath through her nose, almost a laugh, though there is nothing light in it.
When the woman glances back, they straighten, faces smoothing into something sweet again.
Near the door, old Mircea sets aside a small portion of bread and cheese, careful with his hands, as though measuring out something precious.
When he turns to speak to one of the men beside him, it takes no more than a moment.
Two of Radu’s friends shift closer, their movements casual, and one of them lifts the food without a word, breaking it in half and passing it between them.
When Mircea turns back, his place is empty.
He frowns, searching for a second, then lowers his gaze and says nothing.
A child darts between legs, chasing after something unseen, laughter bubbling up too loud for the quiet of the morning.
One of the older women turns abruptly, her hand shooting out to catch the child by the shoulder, shoving him aside with more force than the small body can bear.
He stumbles, nearly falling, the laughter cut off into a startled cry.
She does not look at him, already smoothing her apron, speaking to the woman beside her as though nothing has happened.
It moves through the room like breath, like habit, and I stand among them, watching.
The doors of the barn swing open so suddenly they strike the wall with a hollow crack, dragging me back into reality. A boy stands there, heaving, hair damp with morning mist. "He has arrived," he calls. "The new priest is here."
The words ripple outward. Men straighten in a sudden shift, blankets thrown aside, women gathering shawls around their shoulders as though modesty must be restored before authority enters their sight.
A current of relief moves through the space, followed by something eager, curiosity edged with hope.
Someone crosses herself. Someone whispers, "God be praised. "
We spill out into the cold, into the mist that clings low over the fields, washing everything into shadow.
Near the church, beside the assistant and his white horse, stands a man I do not know.
He is younger than I expected. His beard is trimmed close, more careful than full, as though he has not yet grown into it.
His robes hang straight and unadorned, less worn than his predecessor's ever were, the black cloth severe against the gray of the morning.
Where Popa Vasile carried himself with an easy sway, a softness in the belly and shoulders, this one stands upright as a post driven into frozen ground.
His hands are clasped before him, fingers interlocked tightly enough that they look stiff.
"Popa Dorin," the assistant announces, voice thin with fatigue. "Sent by the diocese to shepherd us in this time of trial."
Popa Dorin inclines his head in acknowledgment, not smiling.
His eyes move quickly, as though taking account of everything— passing over Radu’s father standing broad and solemn at the front, over the women huddled close together, over the boys straining to see more clearly.
When they skim across me, they do not linger.
Still, I feel the weight of them like a brief shadow.
Radu’s father steps forward first, bowing slightly. "Father," he says, voice rough with contained grief. "We are grateful you have come."
The priest's expression does not soften. "The Lord does not abandon His flock," he replies, his voice lacking the familiar warmth we were used to. "But neither does He ignore disorder."
The word lands oddly in the morning air.
Around me, the people stand expectant, shoulders squared, faces turned toward him as though awaiting instruction. A shepherd has arrived, order will follow.
I find myself looking past him.
Past the church doors, still stained and darkened.
Past the horse’s shifting flank. My gaze drifts to the tree line beyond the houses.
The forest waits there, quiet, its branches tangled and deep.
Even in daylight it seems deeper now, less forgiving.
My pulse shifts when I look at it. The memory of moonlight against bark, of breath against my skin, rises with such clarity that the village sounds dim around me.
I feel him still in my skin, in the hollow beneath my throat, in the steady warmth that coils through my chest. The morning light does not wash it away.
A crow lifts from the treeline and disappears into the pale sky.
"Where is the body?" Popa Dorin asks.
The question lands like an order.
Radu’s father gestures toward the church. "Within, Father. We covered him until your arrival."
Popa Dorin’s jaw tightens. He steps forward without waiting for further explanation, his boots darkening with dew as he crosses the yard, the assistant clinging to him.
The crowd parts to let him pass, whispers thinning into silence as they move toward the church, breath rising in pale clouds that drift and vanish.
No one speaks loudly. Even the children keep close to their mothers’ skirts, sensing the weight pressing down over the yard.
The bell rope sways in the thin morning wind, knocking softly against the wood as if it too does not dare ring.
The hand is still there.
Nailed high against the church door, fingers stiff and darkened, the skin drawn tight where iron pierces through.
The flesh has begun to turn, swollen and wrong.
Ravens cling to the doorframe and the beam above, their black wings hunched close against their bodies as they peck and tear with small, efficient movements.
One lifts its head as we approach, a thread of something pale caught in its beak.
Another flutters down, claws scraping wood as it joins the feast.
A murmur ripples through the villagers like a cold wind through dry leaves, the sound of the birds’ beaks striking flesh carrying coldly in the stillness.
I feel the recoil in my stomach, the instinctive tightening at the sight of it.
Yet, beneath the discomfort, something else stirs.
I remember the eyes that lingered when I knelt, leaning closer, asking where exactly, how exactly, did you want it.
I remember the basin by the hearth, the sense of being watched, the memory no longer uncertain.
The ravens tear at what once pressed a rosary to my lips.
Beside me, Elena steps closer. The yellow ribbon is still tied in her hair, neat against the dark fall of it, bright against the muted morning.
My thoughts brush against the memory of the bundle I burned at the edge of the forest, the cloth tucked inside Doamn? Irina’s drawer. A faint blue thread woven into linen.
Did she know?
The question flickers and fades before it can fully form. Elena turns suddenly, and, as though feeling my stare, her eyes find mine in a heartbeat. Without a word, she steps closer and slips her hand into mine, squeezing tightly.
The pressure of her fingers is familiar, a grounding tether to the years we have shared. I squeeze back, because I always have, because I love her as I have always loved her. Yet, if the warmth of her touch reaches me, it does not settle the way it once did.