"It’s Sunday. We do not work by the river on Sundays."
Her fingers tighten around the fabric of her skirt while I blink in confusion.
"But—"
"Duminica nu e a oamenilor," she cuts in, each word firm and final. "E a lui Dumnezeu."[13]
"Of course," I nod slowly, swallowing the protest rising on my tongue.
A faint irritation prickles beneath my skin, unwelcome and quickly buried. Since when? I wonder. Since when has the river belonged to sin on one day and not the others? I do not remember these rules from before.
But it must be for a reason.
Mama says so. Popa Vasile says so, and Popa Vasile knows more than anyone. Everyone knows that.
Mama exhales and leans back, eyes closing briefly, fingers still tight over her heart.
"Raveena," she calls after a moment.
"Yes, Mama."
"Come," she says. "Let us pray now."
The sheets are set aside as I cross the room without another word, kneeling before the fire, beneath the watching cross.
I bow my head.
And I obey.
***
We spill out of the church together, blinking into the daylight.
The air feels welcomed after the incense and smoke, after the long stillness of standing and kneeling and bowing our heads beneath the wooden arches. Voices rise cautiously at first, then loosen as people step away from the doors.
"What he said," Doamna Irina beams as she fusses with Elena's shawl, "clear as day. Strong, too."
Mama nods, her fingers brushing mine as if to make sure I am still there. "Popa Vasile speaks so that even the stubborn hear him."
We are only a few steps from the churchyard when a boy comes running up the path, breathless and flushed, hair sticking to his forehead.
"Popa!" he callsout, skidding to a stop in front of us.
The murmur dies instantly. Popa Vasile turns, his expression tightening as it always does when someone speaks out of order.
"What is it, child?"
"There—there are people," the boy pants, words tumbling over one another. "By the road. They’re asking for shelter."
A ripple moves through the crowd.
Popa Vasile steps closer, looming slightly. "Where do they come from?"
"They wouldn’t say."
A murmur again—uneasy this time. Travellers are rare. Strangers more so.
"And where are they going?"
