He doesn’t look away.
For a moment he studies me, his face unreadable, the warmth there dimmed by something else. His mouth curves, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
"You know, you make it very hard sometimes."
I blink, unsure I’ve heard him right.
"You look at me like that," he continues, voice soft. "With those eyes." His head tils, as if weighing something. "What am I supposed to think?"
My heart stumbles.
"My eyes?" I repeat, uncertain. I don’t understand what he means. I’ve looked at him the same way my whole life, haven’t I?
He exhales through his nose, a quiet sound that might almost be a laugh. "You bring me pie. You stand there all sweet and quiet," he says, still mild, still smiling faintly, "as if you don’t know what it does."
Heat rushes to my face.
"I—I was only bringing you food," I manage quickly. "Mama told me to."
"Of course," he answers, nodding once, as if that settles it.
I open my mouth to answer, to ask what he means, to tell him—
But he’s already stepping back.
"It’s late." Warmth returns to his voice. "You should go home."
He leans in just enough to press a brief kiss to my forehead. "Good night, Raveena."
Then he is gone—back toward the tavern. The door opens, swallowing him in light and noise before closing again with a dull thud that leaves me standing alone.
My hands tremble. My thoughts scatter, refusing to settle.Those eyes?I stare after the door, trying to understand what he saw in me that I didn’t see myself.
The night offers no answer.
Chapter Five
I wake tangled in heat and fatigue.
My skin is damp. My body feels drained, as though the night has pressed on me with both hands and wrung something loose from my bones. For a moment I lie still, staring at the dark beams above me while my breath slowly steadies.
Sleep did not bring rest so much as images.
The traveller’s gaze, steady and unashamed, Mama’s hand striking my cheek, Radu’s fingers beneath my bodice, his breath warm against my skin, the woman in red leaning close, whispering about danger—they circle through my mind again and again, twisting into one another until I cannot tell where one ends and the next begins. Even now they cling to me, stubborn as the sweat at my neck.
Above it all the storm raged, rain hammering the roof like fists, thunder rolling through the beams as if the house itself were being judged. The wind howled through every crack, rattling the walls until the prayers on my lips trembled with it.
Now it has passed. Morning light slips thinly through the opening near the roof, the air washed with damp earth and cooling wood—yet I do not feel clean at all. I push it aside. Dreams are only dreams, and the day begins.
I sit up slowly, push the blankets aside, and force myself down the ladder.
Mama is already awake.
She kneels by the hearth, coaxing the fire back to life, the glow outlining her figure in familiar lines. The sound of embers stirring is the only greeting I get.
"Buna diminea?a,"[15] I murmur, lowering my eyes.
No answer.
