"Neaga," I call, pushing the door open. "It’s me."
The hinges answer with a tired groan.
Inside, the air closes around me—stale, heavy, thick with the sour-sweet scent of sickness and damp wool. Light barely reaches beyond thethreshold; the shuttered window keeps the room dim enough that my eyes must adjust.
Neaga lies on the bed, smaller than she should be. Her face burns too bright against the gray of her skin, her hair sticking to her temples. Each breath rattles faintly, as though her lungs must fight for it. A dry, weak cough takes her without warning, leaving her gasping when it passes.
I set my basket down and move first to the hearth. The fire has nearly died; I coax it back with practiced hands, feeding it small pieces of wood until a weak flame stirs. Then I cross the room and push the shutters open. Cool, wet air rushes in, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth.
I kneel beside her.
Up close, the fever is undeniable, heat radiating from her skin. Her eyes flutter open at my presence, unfocused at first, then finding me.
"Raveena," she murmurs.
"Yes," I answer softly. "I’m here."
I smooth a cloth and press it lightly to her forehead. Her skin is burning. Another cough shakes her, leaving her trembling.
"Has Popa Vasile come to see you today?"
She nods faintly. "He came," she rasps. "He prayed. And prayed."
Her mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Sometimes I wonder… if he isn’t cursing me instead."
The words land like a stone dropped into still water. I go rigid, a chill sliding up my spine as my gaze flicks instinctively toward the door, as though the walls themselves might carry her voice.
"Neaga. You shouldn’t say such things."
She coughs again, longer this time, the sound hollow and wrong. When it passes, she looks at me with glassy eyes, her smile fading as quickly as it came.
"Ah… pay me no mind," she mumbles. "I’m just tired. So tired."
I nod, forcing calm into my face as I smooth the blanket at her shoulder, grounding myself in the motion.
Of course. The fever has her talking nonsense; exhaustion loosens the tongue. No one would speak of Popa Vasile like that—not in earnest. Not unless something was very wrong.
I press the cloth more firmly to her brow, murmuring soothing words as if to press the danger of her speech back into her skin along with the heat.
The water trembles as I take the jug from the hearth and set it on the table, steam lifting in thin strands. My hand reaches for the bundle of chamomile tied with twine—the safe one, the blessed one. My fingers close around it.
And still.
For a moment, I do not move. I stand there, hands braced on the wood, listening to my own breath. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t.
I promised.
I should make chamomile, nothing more. The kind of remedy no one questions. Proper. Permitted.
But I felt Neaga's skin—how it burns beneath my fingers, how it trembles even at rest. The fever is not breaking, it is circling, stubborn and cruel.
Chamomile will soothe, it will calm. It will do nothing else.
She needs the fire drawn out, not lulled. She needs the heat broken, the shaking quieted. Mugwort to settle the fever-dreams. Willow bark to cool what burns too high. Yarrow to pull the sickness back where it can leave her.
My eyes drift to her. She lies half-lost to herself, gaze unfocused, breath shallow. No one else is here. No footsteps at the door. No voices. Only the wind through the open shutters and the soft crackle of the fire.
She won’t notice the difference—no one will. And if she does not get better—
