"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, Isense 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."
