Chapter Three
The words reach me first, soft as breath against my skin.
I stir slowly, still caught somewhere between sleep and something deeper, my body heavy with the echo of the night.
For a moment I do not open my eyes. I wait for the cool of moss beneath my back, for the scent of pine and damp earth, for the press of him beside me.
A hand brushes my cheek, and my eyes open slowly.
The barn ceiling comes into view.
The beams. The pale morning light seeping through the cracks. The smell of hay.
A sound escapes my throat before I can stop it, small and wounded.
My chest tightens. I am here. Not beneath the trees.
Not in his arms. Not in the place where the night unfolded like something sacred and terrible and real.
The emptiness hits so violently I almost fold in on myself.
I turn my head, breath catching, as though I might still find him there, waiting at the edge of sight.
But there is only my mother.
She sits beside me, closer than she has been in days, thumb brushing my skin in slow, absent strokes.
Her face is softer than I remember it, the tension that had held it tight these past nights eased into something almost gentle.
Her eyes shine with a light I have not seen since before everything changed.
"There you are," she murmurs. "You slept deeply. That is good."
I blink, the last traces of sleep slipping away too quickly. My chest tightens as the truth settles fully. I am still here. The forest did not take me. He did not come.
She smiles, hopeful, as though something has been restored simply by the promise of what is to come.
"We have much to do today," she says, her fingers smoothing a stray strand of hair from my face, "Everything must be ready. It will be a good day."
Her gaze lingers on me as though she sees not what I am now, but what she believes I will become by evening. There is kindness in her touch again. Pride. Relief.
My heart clenches. For a moment I want to lean into her hand, to let that warmth hold me the way it once did. To forget the night. To forget the forest. To forget the way my body answered something it was never meant to answer.
This is for the best. The thought comes quietly, almost gently.
This is how it should be. A husband. A home. A life that does not slip into darkness at night and return before dawn. I cannot wander the woods forever like a child chasing shadows. I cannot remain suspended in a night that does not belong to the world I was born into.
I must grow. I must do what is expected of me.
I nod faintly, though the movement feels distant.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady enough. "It will be."
Mama’s smile deepens, her hand still resting against my cheek, and for a moment I let myself remain there beneath it, holding still, as though if I do not move, the quiet between us might remain unbroken.
Hands gather around me before the sun has fully risen.
They guide me to my feet, to the basin, to the place prepared.
Fingers loosen my clothes without asking, fabric slipping from my shoulders, my arms, my waist. I do not resist. I let them undress me as though I am not entirely there, as though the body they uncover belongs to someone who will understand this later, who will feel what I cannot.
Water is poured. It runs cold at first, then warmed by hands that move with purpose, washing, smoothing, preparing.
Cloth passes over my skin again and again, as though they might cleanse something unseen.
I stand in the middle of them, bare and still, my arms lifted when they guide them, my head tilted when they turn it.
"Tonight you become a woman," Doamn? Ileana murmurs as she wrings the cloth between her hands.
"A husband’s rights are God’s will," another nods, smoothing water along my arms. "You must not resist him. It only makes it harder."
"It hurts only at first."
"Think of the children. It will be easier."
"Close your eyes and pray if you must," one of the older women says gently. "God will carry you through it."
The words pass over me like smoke, my mouth forming the shapes of agreement without sound.
I have already crossed that threshold they speak of in hushed, careful tones.
It was not pain.
It was not duty.
It did not make me turn away from myself.
A tremor passes through me. One of the women mistakes it for cold and draws a cloth tighter around my shoulders, rubbing warmth back into my skin. I let her.
They speak of obedience. Of stillness. Of quiet endurance.
I remember pleasure. I remember choosing. I remember the way my breath broke not from restraint but from something that felt like being unraveled from within. A heat that did not ask me to close my eyes, but drew them open.
"Hold still," Mama says softly behind me.
I realize I have shifted without noticing. I still again at once. Her hands are gentler than the others, careful as they smooth my hair, as they press the cloth along my arms. There is pride in her touch. Relief. A kind of tenderness that feels almost like apology, though no words are spoken.
Linen is drawn over skin that still remembers his touch. Laces pulled tight where his fingers had loosened them only hours before.
"There," Doamn? Ileana breathes, her hands still hovering in the air where they last smoothed the fabric. "Look at her."
The others gather closer, their voices rising in soft exclamations.
Fingers brush lightly at my sleeves, adjusting what is already set, straightening what does not need straightening.
The dress is simple—white linen, drawn close at the waist, falling in clean lines to my feet. It fits tight against my ribs.
Mama comes to stand at my side.
For a moment she only looks at me. Her eyes move slowly, taking in each detail, as though she fears something might shift if she looks too quickly. Then her hand rises, trembling just slightly, and rests against my cheek.
"You are beautiful," she says, her voice on the verge of breaking. "Just as you should be."
Elena leans in close on my other side, her arm brushing mine. "Radu will not be able to look away," she whispers, her smile bright, her eyes shining.
Their warmth surrounds me, close and earnest.
Someone brings forward a basin, its surface filled with still water drawn fresh from the well. They hold it carefully between them, angling it toward me.
"See," one of the women urges softly.
I look.
For a moment the image wavers, broken by the faint tremor of the water. Then it steadies.
A girl stands there, pale beneath white linen, her throat hidden, her posture straight and proper. Her hands rest neatly at her sides. Her hair has been braided and coiled, pinned neatly, the ribbon woven through like a small thread of colour beneath the restraint.
She looks like a bride.
I search her face for something familiar. Hold the gaze of my reflection, waiting for recognition to come.
It does not.
A scream tears through the fragile stillness that had gathered around me, and for a moment, I think it comes from my imagination. But the basin trembles in the women’s hands, ripples breaking the image apart, and the room empties in a breath.
The women move before the sound has even settled.
Voices rise, skirts gathered in hurried hands as they rush toward the door. I follow without thinking, pulled along by the surge of bodies, the echo of the scream still ringing through me.
The ground is damp beneath my feet, soft from frost and morning dew. The hem of my dress drags through it as I run, the white linen darkening at once, streaked with earth. I do not feel it.
The square is already crowded.
Old Petru lies on his back in the centre, limbs slack, head turned awkwardly to one side. His wife kneels beside him, hands shaking as she grips his shoulders, calling his name again and again, her voice breaking with each attempt.
"Help him—someone help him—"
The word spreads before I reach them.
"Strigoi."
"It has come again—"
It moves through the crowd like a breath drawn too quickly, passing from mouth to mouth, gaining shape as it travels.
I push through them.
My heart is already racing, but not with their fear. I know this. I have seen this before. My father’s voice returns to me, steady and certain, guiding my hands, teaching me what to look for. The stillness. The breath caught too long. The heart that falters and forgets its rhythm.
Elbows brush my sides. Someone tries to hold me back, but I slip past, dropping to my knees beside him. The world narrows. The noise falls away.
I lean over him, my hands already moving, pressing where I was taught, searching for the faintest sign beneath skin and bone. But his skin is pale, too much so. The colour has drained from his face, leaving it waxen, still. His chest does not rise. His lips have begun to blue.
No.
Not this. Not today. Not when they believe everything will be set right.
I press again, harder, willing something beneath my palms to answer.
My father’s voice echoes somewhere distant, guiding my fingers, showing me where to feel, how to listen.
The world tilts slightly, a strange pressure building behind my ribs, in my throat, in the very centre of me where something has been restless since the night before.
Then—
It shifts.
A faint warmth gathers in my hands. It spreads quickly, seeping outward through my fingers, into the place where they rest against his chest. It is not heat like fire. It is softer. Brighter. It moves with purpose.
For a moment, everything stills.
The noise fades. The air seems to hold.
Light—faint, trembling—flares between my palms and his skin, barely visible, yet undeniable. It pulses once, then again, spreading through him as though answering a call.
His skin shifts beneath my touch. Colour returns slowly, faint at first, then stronger, creeping back into his cheeks. His chest stutters—once, twice—and then lifts in a shallow, desperate breath.
Air.
He gasps, the sound tearing through the square.