"She came to me before the betrothal was sealed. More than once." His gaze does not leave my face. "I had to turn her away. To remind her of what is proper."
For a moment, I do not understand the meaning of it. Then, it settles.
Something breaks loose in me.
"You lie," I say in anger, the words, burning through everything else. "You are the one who would not wait. You came to me—"
A gasp ripples through the crowd.
It silences everything else.
"She admits it," someone whispers.
"She tempted him—"
"Before marriage—"
"Shameless—"
"Witch."
The word strikes again, harder this time, finding purchase.
I shake my head, my breath coming too fast, my chest tight with something that will not release. "No," I say again, softer, desperate now. "You do not understand—"
"She spoke over the priest, and he was found dead the next morning—"
"She spreads sickness—"
"Neaga—look what became of her—"
"She poisons with those things—"
"She flees her duties—"
Each accusation folds into the next, building a shape around me, a story I cannot unmake.
Petru’s voice rises among them, hoarse and insistent. "She spoke over me," he says, pushing himself forward despite his wife’s grip. "When I lay there. I heard her. Pagan words."
My hands tremble where they rest against the ground.
"She called something," he goes on. "I felt it. It came through her."
A murmur of fear answers him, deeper now, darker.
"The strigoi—"
"She summoned it—"
"It fed because of her—"
The words close in.
I look from face to face, searching for something that will hold, something that will not shift beneath me. Mama stands rigid, eyes still turned away. Elena does not look up. Radu remains where he is, unmoving.
My breath falters, shallow, uneven.
I try to speak.
