Her silence presses into me, thicker than anger might have been, setting my heart racing for no clear reason. I linger for a moment too long before turning away and beginning the morning’s work.
We move through it without words. I sweep the floor where dust has gathered. I fold cloths, straighten what is already straight. She stirs the pot. I rinse yesterday’s cups in the basin, the water biting against my fingers. The house feels narrower somehow, each sound too loud, each mistake waiting to be noticed.
When the time comes, we kneel.
Our prayers are brief today, spoken low, almost swallowed. I repeat the words obediently, careful not to falter. After we rise, Mama sets a loaf on the table and sits without looking at me.
I take my place across from her, hands folded in my lap. Bread is set between us—plain, coarse, broken into uneven pieces. I take my piece and eat slowly, tasting little, my eyes fixed on the table grain, counting knots in the wood. Mama reaches out and places another piece beside mine. It is not much, and still, my breath catches.
"Mul?umesc,"[16] I murmur, the words barely audible.
Mama glances up at last. No smile touches her face, but she reaches out and lays her hand briefly on my shoulder, grounding. I exhale, the tension draining from me so fast it leaves me lightheaded. My eyes burn, though I blink the feeling away quickly, ashamed of the relief flooding me for so little.
She has forgiven me. I sit straighter, I chew more easily, savoring the simple weight of her hand, the bread warming my fingers, the house holding together for another morning.
Mama rises first, brushing crumbs from her skirt.
"Go to Neaga," she says, matter-of-fact, as she ties her shawl tighter around her shoulders. "She’s still unwell. And the child… poor thing."
Though her tone leaves no room for refusal, it is not needed.
"Of course," I answer without hesitation.
She nods in satisfaction, already turning back to the hearth. "We help those who have little. And we pray for them. God sees such things."
Outside, the storm has left its mark behind. The earth lies darkened, the air heavy with moisture, the world damp and newly rinsed. Puddles cling to the ruts in the road, reflecting a sky gone dull and gray, swollen andundecided, as if it might yet open again. I walk carefully, skirts lifted just enough to keep them dry.
I am halfway down the path when I hear my name. Elena stands by the well, a basket hooked over her arm, her pale hair neatly bound. I smile despite myself.
"Buna diminea?a."
"Buna," she answers. "Where are you off to so early?"
"To Neaga’s. Mama asked me to tend to her."
Her nose wrinkles before she can hide it. "To the wildling’s house?"
I pause, turning back to her, a crease forming between my brows.
"Elena," I say gently. "We shouldn’t speak like that."
Color floods her cheeks immediately. "I know. I’m sorry." She glances aside, her voice lowering. "It’s just… that woman and her child. They frighten me."
A small laugh escapes me. "There’s nothing to fear. Neaga is kind. She’s always been."
She studies me for a moment, then nods, her expression softening. "You’re right." A faint smile touches her lips. "That’s what I admire about you. You always see the good. You’re so… selfless."
The words warm me more than they should.
I duck my head, shy despite myself. "I’m not. I only do what needs doing."
She squeezes my arm before turning down another path. "Take care."
"You too."
I watch her go for a moment, then continue on. The path narrows as the houses thin, my thoughts settling back into quiet order.
Neaga’s house waits at the edge of the village where the last fences falter and the trees begin, its walls worn and leaning as though time has pressed harder upon it. Beyond it, branches gather close, their shadows already reaching for the roof.
