"Told you it was an apple," she said, thrusting it close to his face.
Laughter broke out immediately.
"You didn’t even try, Radu!" one of the kids jeered.
"Too scared!" another chimed in.
Still, the boy only smiled, revealing a set of slightly crooked teeth. He leaned back just enough to avoid the fruit brushing his nose, eyes flicking from it to the green of Raveena's eyes.
"And how do you know," he asked mildly, "that it isn’t rotten?"
Raveena blinked. A brief change passed over her face—surprise, perhaps, or irritation at the doubt. Her grin slipped for a breath, only to come back bolder than before, gaze drifting to the apple that still sat heavy and perfect between them.
"Raveena, don’t—"
Elena opened her mouth, panic already rushing to her voice, but Raveena’s teeth had already broken the skin in a wet, decisive crack. Juice spilled at once, running down her chin and over her fingers as the taste bloomed on her tongue—sour at first, then sweet. Perfect.
She laughed around the mouthful before she took another bite for good measure, ignoring Elena's desperate groans and the wide-eyed stares of her comrades, some beaming as if shown a trick they would talk about long after the snow melted.
Radu watched her, his smile unchanged, his gaze lingering not on the apple, but on her face—on the smear of juice at the corner of her mouth, on the way she stood as though the world had dared her and lost.
Above them, the raven shifted on its branch, unseen by any of them.
I – The Father
Chapter One
I slice the apple thin, careful not to waste any of the flesh.
The blade is dull from years of use, its edge nicked and darkened, still it bites cleanly into the fruit. My fingers know this work now; they no longer rush, no longer ache to prove anything—though the skin across my hand is raw where the cold water from the well chafed it this morning. A faint sting lingers each time the juice touches the small cuts.
I lay the slices one by one atop the dough, careful not to overlap them too much, their flesh already browning where the air touches it.
"Well done," Doamna[1] Marica murmurs, leaning in to inspect it. "You’ve learned patience."
I lower my eyes at that, heat creeping into my cheeks as I slide the board toward the hearth.
Hands move in steady rhythms beside me: dough being rolled, flour dusted from fingers, walnuts crushed with the back of a spoon against a stone. Sleeves are pushed up over forearms dusted white; strands of hair cling to temples, loosened by the heat. The kitchen is warm despite the autumn pressing against its walls, the heat from the hearth licking at my skirts and fogging the air with smoke and breath.
Our voices weave easily as we work, a low thread of gossip and laughter—who is with child, whose cow has gone lame, how much grain might be left by spring. Someone laughs too loudly at a joke I don’t quite hear. Someone else scolds her for it, smiling all the same.
The apple slices now form a neat spiral. I sprinkle crushed nuts and a pinch of dried herbs over them, just enough to scent the pie.
"Careful," Doamna Irina says gently, nudging my elbow with hers. "You’ll cut yourself again."
"I won’t," I answer. I adjust my grip all the same.
The pie is lifted together, set onto a flat wooden board, then slid into the mouth of the oven built into the hearth. Inside, the stones glow dull red beneath the ash, the heat breathing out when we open it. The opening is sealed with well-worn movements—brick and clay pressed back into place to keep the warmth in.
We do not stand idle; there is always more to do.
Bowls to wash with cold water drawn earlier from the well, herbs to hang higher so mice cannot reach them, wool to sort. Someone shells nuts. Someone stirs a pot. Elena stands across from me, kneading dough with practiced strength, forearms taught with the effort, her fingers flexing now and then to ease a cramp she does not name. Her eyes lift to mine and she offers me a smirk, a private thing, quick as a spark.
Laughter flares again, then fades as I rinse the knife in a wooden basin, the water already cloudy with flour and peelings.
When the pie is drawn out at last, its crust is golden and blistered, the scent sweet enough to make my mouth ache. The apples have softened, their rims curling inward, syrup bubbling thick and slow between them.
We murmur our approval, as if it might hear us.
