Chapter One #2
The ravens scatter suddenly as Popa Dorin steps forward.
His jaw tightens at the sight, though he does not recoil.
Radu’s father and the assistant move with him, clearing space before the doors.
Without ceremony, without lingering, the new priest mounts the steps and pushes the heavy wood inward.
The hinges groan as the church opens to receive him, and he disappears inside with the men, leaving the rest of us in the yard beneath the silent, watchful sky.
We wait.
The doors remain closed for longer than feels natural.
The crowd shifts in the yard, boots grinding frost into slush, breath rising and fading, but no one dares step closer than the threshold.
A few men edge closer, peering into the dim interior, but the nave is swallowed in shadow.
Nothing moves inside that we can see. Even the ravens keep their distance now, perched along the rooftops in watchful silence.
Mama’s fingers worry the edge of her shawl. Elena’s hand has slipped from mine, though she stands close enough that our sleeves still brush. No one speaks above a murmur.
When Popa Dorin emerges at last, his face looks paler than before, though his spine remains straight. He pauses on the top step, hands folded within the sleeves of his dark robes, gaze lowered as if measuring his breath. Then he lifts his eyes.
The crowd stills.
"All that has transpired," he begins, his voice clear and carrying in the cold air, "did not happen without cause."
A few heads bow. Others stiffen.
"There is no wound upon consecrated ground that is not first opened in the spirit," he continues. "If evil has crossed this threshold, it is because vigilance has faltered."
A murmur trembles through the villagers, faint as wind through dry leaves. I feel Mama’s fingers tighten around her rosary beside me.
Popa Dorin’s gaze moves across us slowly, not accusing, yet unyielding. "Sin invites what it believes it can hide," he says. "Corruption does not descend unbidden. It is made room for."
The words press against my skin. I glance at the faces around me—at lowered eyes, at lips moving in hurried prayers, at shoulders drawing inward as though shrinking from an unseen gaze.
His attention shifts to the doorway behind him. Two men carry out a small chest and set it down at the foot of the steps—the offerings given over months and years. Coins. Small pieces of gold. Tokens pressed into Popa Vasile’s keeping.
Popa Dorin rests his hand atop the lid.
"The house of God," he says, "is not a treasury."
The statement is simple, almost gentle. It cuts cleanly all the same. I see Radu’s father glance briefly toward the assistant, then away again. I see one of the older women press her lips together, her expression uncertain.
"These excesses cease," the priest continues. "We will cleanse this place of excess and restore it to humility."
He does not raise his voice. He does not name wrongdoing. Yet something in the crowd shifts, a subtle loosening of old certainty.
He straightens.
"We will return him to the earth today," he says. "It has been long enough."
The decisiveness in his tone seems to steady the crowd. I hear a few soft praises—"Yes, Father"—"It is right"—spoken with relief that borders on gratitude.
"Order must be restored," he adds, stepping down from the threshold.
His movements are measured, deliberate. His chin remains lifted, his posture firm.
And yet, as he passes close enough for me to see the edge of his sleeve tremble faintly before he stills it against his side, I sense something taut beneath the composure.
His breath draws slightly faster than his words require.
A faint sheen glints at his temple despite the cold.
A voice breaks the fragile calm. "Father… shall we remain together in the barn?"
All heads turn again toward Popa Dorin. He pauses only a moment before answering. "You may, for this night. Until the burial is complete." His gaze sweeps over us, measured. "But fear is not to become habit. Tomorrow, we shall proceed as planned."
A murmur stirs. "As planned?"
He inclines his head slightly toward Radu’s father and gives a brief nod.
The man steps forward, clearing his throat. His chest swells slightly as he speaks. "It has been decided that the union between my son and Raveena will take place sooner than planned. Popa Dorin has advised that we not delay what is righteous."
The words strike before their meaning settles. I feel the shift before I fully understand it.
"A wedding?" someone echoes.
Popa Dorin lifts his chin. "Where death has entered, life must answer," he says, his voice steady, almost fervent. "We will not allow darkness the final word. A union blessed before God will cleanse what has been profaned."
The morning seems to still.
Then every gaze turns.
It is a physical sensation, the weight of it. Dozens of eyes settling upon me as one, curious, approving, expectant. Mama’s hand tightens around my arm. Elena’s fingers slip from mine. Radu looks at me with something like pride, like anticipation.
The marriage.
My breath leaves me in a violent rush that hurts my ribs. The yard tilts slightly, the mist thickening along my sight. I hear my own pulse, loud and erratic, pounding behind my ears. Heat floods my face, then drains just as quickly, leaving me cold beneath my shawl.
Tomorrow.
The forest presses at my back again—the way I lay beneath another man’s body beneath the trees only hours ago, whispering his name into the dark. My body remembers his touch, the mark at my throat, the way he said mine as though it were not a chain but a vow.
How can I stand before the altar beside Radu, vow myself to hands that never made my breath falter, when every nerve in me still burns for another?
The thought fractures something inside my chest.
Voices continue around me, pleased, relieved, speaking of celebration, of joy returning to the village.
A few women gasp softly. Others smile with sudden brightness, as though a lantern has been lit in the gloom.
Mama’s hand strokes my sleeve as though I am already a bride.
I try to draw in air and find it thin, insufficient, the world narrowing to a tunnel of sound and light.
The ground shifts.
My fingers reach for something—fabric, flesh, I do not know—but they close on nothing.
The sky brightens abruptly, too much so.
My knees give without warning. Frosted earth rushes upward in a blur of pale and shadow, and the last thing I see before darkness folds over me is the line of trees beyond the village, standing still and watchful.
Hands catch me before I meet the ground.
Arms close around my shoulders, my waist, steadying me as a cry rises from the crowd.
The sky swings above me in a blur of white light and dark wings.
Ravens wheel against the pale morning, their shapes cutting across the brightness.
My head lolls back against someone’s arm, breath struggling to find its way into my chest.
"She is overcome," one of the older women says quickly, her voice firm and practical. "Too much joy all at once."
"A bride’s heart is tender," another adds, patting my cheek with brisk fingers. "It is nothing. She will steady."
Their voices wash over me, eager to smooth the moment into something harmless.
draw in air slowly, the cold cutting into my lungs.
The ground beneath my back is damp; I feel it through the layers of my dress.
Someone presses my shawl closer around my throat, tucking it neatly as though modesty alone might anchor me.
"There is nothing to fear," Doamn? Marica insists, loud enough for the crowd to hear. "It is happiness, that is all. The girl is overwhelmed."
The world tilts again, but more gently now. The sky recedes. Faces gather above me, ringed in light. I blink until they settle.
Popa Dorin stands just beyond the circle of women, his expression composed but intent.
Radu’s father hovers near him, concern etched plainly across his brow.
Radu himself steps forward, reaching as though to take my hand, then hesitating under the priest’s watchful gaze.
His mother peers at me with narrowed eyes, searching for signs of weakness or doubt.
Mama kneels beside me. Her fingers grip my wrist, firm, almost pleading. Elena crouches on my other side, her face pale with worry.
So many eyes. All fixed on me.
Words gather at the back of my throat, urgent and reckless.
I could tell them I cannot stand before the altar.
That I have already knelt elsewhere. That what they fear has already touched me and found no resistance.
That the village is not in danger from what they imagine, and that no union, no fast, no vigil will undo what has already unfolded beneath the trees.
But what shape could such a truth take in daylight? How would I tell them that beneath my modest dress my skin still burns from a touch they would call unholy? That my body remembers what my mouth cannot confess?
I cannot.
The faces around me wait.
I see fear in them. Hope. The fragile belief that this union will mend what has broken. That I will step forward and seal it for them.
Mama’s grip tightens. "Speak, copilul meu," she whispers.[28]
I draw in a breath that tastes of frost and hay and distant smoke. My lips curve before I feel them move, the smile settling into place as easily as it has for years now. It feels strange against the fever beneath my skin, but it holds.
"I am well." My voice sounds steady enough. "Forgive me. My heart was overwhelmed."
I force myself upright with their help. The yard steadies around me, though my heart still pounds too fast.
The words fall from my mouth like beads from a prayer rope.
"I shall do as is ordained," I continue, lowering my eyes in the manner expected of me. "If it be God’s will and the blessing of His servant, I will join myself to Radu in holy matrimony."