"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," Doamna 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."
Chapter Two
The day folds into ritual.
They wash what remains of Popa Vasile behind closed doors. The severed hand is removed from the door and wrapped in linen without ceremony. Buckets of water are carried in and out, cloths wrung red and then pale again. The bells do not ring. Instead, psalms rise in low, steady voices, led by Popa Dorin from the front of the church, his words precise, measured, leaving no space for wavering. The body is wrapped tightly in linen, face veiled. When they bring him out, the cloth at his shoulders is already dark where it should not be. No one lingers. No one asks to see.
They lower him into the earth before the sun has climbed high. The grave has been dug quickly, the soil damp and heavy. Clods thud against wood with a sound that seems too final for such a hurried farewell. Mama crosses herself repeatedly. Elena weeps softly into her sleeve. Radu stands stiff, jaw set, as though swallowing something cutting.
Popa Dorin stands at the edge of the grave, his voice rising clear and firm as he speaks of vigilance, of watchfulness, of shepherds called home and flocks tested by fire. He does not weep. He does not linger on Popa Vasile’s virtues. His words press forward, toward what must be corrected, what must be guarded, what must be purified. The villagers bow their heads. Some cry quietly. Others stare at the open earth as though measuring their own place within it.
By the time the grave is filled, the yard already feels altered. The church doors have been scrubbed. The chest of offerings has been carried inside and shut.
The sermon stretches long into the pale afternoon. He quotes scripture without faltering, correcting a man mid-response when the line is spoken imperfectly. "It is thus," he says firmly, and the man bows his head in apology.
Near the end, his voice deepens.
"We must answer defilement with obedience. The Lord does not delight in blood, but in repentance. Yet as the innocent Lamb bore the sins of many, so we offer this creature in humility, that corruption may be driven from among us."
A stir passes through the crowd.
Men exchange glances. A murmur swells and shifts. Before the words have fully settled, several voices speak over one another. One offers a lamb from his own flock. Another insists his is larger, his offering more fitting. A third steps forward with urgency, declaring that his household owes thanks for blessings received and will provide the animal.
Their voices overlap, urgent now, eager.
