No one listens.
The crowd presses closer, then falters, held back by the same invisible line that keeps them from touching me. Their eyes move from the herbs to my hands, to my face, as though searching for something that has always been there and only now revealed.
"Mama—"
I turn to her.
She has stepped back.
Not far. Only a single pace. But it is enough.
Her hands are raised slightly, palms outward, as though to ward something off. She does not look at me. Her gaze fixes instead on the ground, on the broken box, on anything that is not my face.
"I did not know," she says, her voice unsteady but clear enough for all to hear. "I swear it. I never taught her this. I never—" Her breath catches. "I would not allow such things in my house."
The words fall like stones.
Something inside me folds in on itself.
"Mama," I whisper, but she does not turn.
The space between us feels wider than the whole of the square.
Voices rise all at once, no longer murmurs but clear and certain, each one reaching for me, pulling, naming, shaping something I do not recognize.
"She has been strange—"
"I saw her near the forest—more than once—"
"Look—moonflowers. They can only be gathered at night."
"She keeps to herself—always watching—"
My mouth opens, closes. There is no space to place a sentence that will hold. The words come from every side, pressing in, leaving no air between them. I turn, searching for something steady, for someone who will see what is before them instead of what they fear.
"Elena—" I say, my voice breaking as I find her face in the crowd.
She stands just beyond Mama, her hands clasped tight, her eyes wide and bright with something I cannot hold onto. Her lips part.
"There was… something," she murmurs, her voice trembling. "On our door. The night before Mama—before she…" Her words falter. "A sign. A spell."
The world tilts.
"No." The word tears out of me, louder than I intend, cutting through the noise. I push myself to my feet, stumbling forward. "No, Elena, you know that is not—" My breath comes fast, uneven. "You know who did that. You know the truth. Tell them."
Her gaze flickers, uncertain, slipping away from mine.
"Tell them," I insist, the plea breaking into something insistent, more desperate. "Tell them it was not me."
Her hands twist together. Her mouth parts, then closes again. A few heads turn toward her, waiting, but she remains silent.
A movement to my right draws the crowd’s attention, as Radu steps forward.
His presence stills something in the air, just for a moment. He looks at me, and for a heartbeat I think—hope—that he will speak for me, that he will set this right.
"She tried to entice me," he says.
The words fall clean, measured, carrying easily across the square.
