Before Radu’s father can answer, one of their women steps forward, her long skirts whispering against the dust. She is tall, full in the hips, wrapped in layered fabric the colour of wine and ash. Silver flashes at her throat and wrists as she moves and a deep red scarf rests loosely over her shoulders, slipping just enough to reveal dark hair braided with fine strands of metal that catch the sun as she moves. Her face is finely cut, adorned by two unreadable, dark-lined eyes.
She leans close to the man who spoke and says something in a language I have never heard.
The sound of it stills me, yet I find myself leaning forward without realizing it.
It flows and turns in on itself, rising and falling like something sung rather than spoken. The words seem to glide, threaded with warmth and rhythm, as if belonging to breath more than rule.
Beside me, bodies draw tight. Breaths shorten. Shoulders lift a fraction, held there as if bracing. Mama’s hand presses briefly against my arm, while somewhere close, a prayer slips out.
The man listens to the woman without interruption, giving a slight nod now and then. When she finishes, she steps back into the group as easily as she came, eyes holding still while his companion turns once more to Radu’s father.
"We will pay," he says simply. "Good price."
A murmur stirs as he reaches into his coat and draws out a small satchel that gives a soft, unmistakable cling as it moves—metal brushing metal. Beneath our silent gazes, his hand slips inside, disappearing for a moment before he lifts something into the light, holding it up between two fingers. It catches the sun and throws it back at us in a warm, blinding flash.
Gold.
A hush falls. The whispers fall away, one by one, until there is only the faint creak of leather and wood, the quiet breathing of too many people standing too close together. The air feels thicker, as if it has settled lower, pressing gently against chests and throats.
No one looks away.
Doamna Irina’s eyes catch the light, her lips parting slightly, as if she has forgotten to keep them pressed together. Mama’s hand tightens around mine, her lips curving. It is a small smile, careful, the kind she wears in church when Popa Vasile speaks of blessing and reward. Her shoulders ease. Her fear, moments ago so transparent, seems to loosen its grip.
My brow furrows without meaning to.
I have seen gold before—on the cross above the altar, on the chalice Popa Vasile lifts with such care. It belongs to God, to sacred things, to places where hands are washed and words are measured.
It looks strange here, resting so easily in an open palm.
The man lets the light linger on it just long enough for its weight to be felt, then closes his fingers around it again.
The sound dies first.
"May I see it?" Popa Vasile steps forward with purpose, his robe brushing the dust, his face radiating calm authority.
The foreigner laughs—a rich sound that rolls out of him without restraint—as he places the gold into the priest’s waiting hand. It disappears there, swallowed by pale fingers.
The priest turns it slowly, pinched between thumb and forefinger. He does not bless it, does not cross himself. His fingers trace the sides, testing the weight, the thickness before bringing it closer to his face, eyes studying the markings with careful attention.
Around me, heads lean in without realizing so. Breaths are held. Bodies angle closer, drawn by something they will not name. Even Radu, who so often looks past everything with easy indifference, has straightened, his head tilting a fraction as if measuring something unseen.
My stomach tightens. Why does everyone look like that?
As if the world has narrowed to the shine of a single thing. I look from face to face, searching for the unease I feel, but I do not find it. Only a strange, quiet eagerness that sits where fear was moments ago. Doesn’t God warn us against this? Against the love of riches, against temptation dressed as blessing? The thought flits through me in confusion.
The coin glints one last time as Popa Vasile turns it in his hand. When he speaks again, it is wrapped in a warmth I do not recognize immediately.
"We are called," he says, turning slightly so his words reach everyone, "to charity. To open our doors as we would open our hearts. The saints teach us that faith is not proven in comfort, but in choice."
He pauses, eyes lowered in humility.
"Let us not turn away those who ask, when we have the means to help."
I search his face for the stern certainty I know so well. It is not there.
Radu’s father inclines his head, as though the matter had already been weighted. "There may be room at the tavern," he grants. "For a short while."
Heads begin to nod. Shoulders relax. A few smiles appear, tentative at first, then more assured, the tension draining from faces as quickly as it came.
