Her dress darkens where the water soaks in. Mud forms faintly at her shoes. She remains still through all of it, steady in a way that feels older than she is.
When it is finished, Popa Vasile lowers the basin. A faint, satisfied smile curves his mouth before he turns to the crowd.
"They are washed," he says, his voice carrying with renewed strength. "Their sins are cleansed. They have been received back into the arms of the Lord."
More crosses. More bowed heads.
His gaze sharpens.
"Let no one speak against them again."
The words are unyielding in their firmness.
"Who speaks against those whom God has received," he continues, his tone firm now, edged with authority, "speaks against God Himself."
Heads bow. A murmur of assent rises—soft, obedient, almost eager in its relief.
"Amen."
"Amen."
I feel my breath leave me fully for the first time since we left the church. It is over. They are safe.
Around me, voices lower. Shoulders relax. People speak in softer tones now, already recounting what has been done as though it belongs safely in the past. One by one they turn back toward the village, glancing at the sky where the sun dips low and red along the horizon.
Boots scuff through the dirt. The assistant carries the basin away, the wood still darkened where water spilled. The last threads of smoke from the burned wreath have vanished.
I move forward before I can think better of it.
Neaga is still kneeling. Her dress clings heavily to her legs, the fabric dark and slick with water. Mud cakes her knees. When she shifts her weight to rise, her breath catches in her throat.
I reach her just as she falters.
"Let me," I say, keeping my voice from rising.
My hands slip beneath her elbows, her skin cold through the soaked linen. She is lighter than I expect, all bone and heat beneath damp cloth. It takes effort for her to straighten fully; I feel the tremor that runs through her as she steadies herself.
Ilinca hovers close, one small hand gripping her mother’s side.
When Neaga finally stands, she sways for the briefest moment. I tighten my hold instinctively, afraid she will collapse.
Her eyes lift to mine.
"Thank you," she murmurs.
The words are barely sound. But the look that follows holds more weight than anything spoken all evening.
My throat tightens.
"Will you be all right?" I ask quickly, glancing at her soaked dress, the water still dripping from the ends of her hair. "You’re trembling. You should not stand long. Do you need help? I can—"
Her head shakes, cutting though my words.
"Go home. You have done enough."
The words land soft but firm.
"The sun is almost set," she adds. "You should not linger."
