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.
