My stockings are smeared dark with earth, streaked along the calves and heels, grit clinging stubbornly to the fabric. Mud has dried there in thin, cracked lines, leaves caught in the weave.
I scramble from the bed and drop to my knees, the motion so fast it makes the room tilt. My hands fumble beneath the frame, fingers scrabbling against wood until they find it.
The box.
Its lid creaks when I wrench it open, far too loud in the stillness. Inside—bundles and sprigs wrapped in twine. Dried leaves. Pressed stems. My breath comes fast as I dig through them, hands clumsy, heart in my throat.
I find them at last—the moonflowers. Only a few lie nestled within, their petals brittle and curled inward with age. The pale glow they once held is long gone, reduced to something fragile and faint. Dried, old—exactly as I left them. Nothing that should not be there.
My lungs burn as they suck in a breath, then another. I bow forward, pressing my forehead briefly against the wood of the bed, rough against my skin.
Of course.
My hair is only wet because I sweated through the night—because I thrashed and dreamed and pulled the blankets tight around me while the storm raged. The stockings—I grimace—yesterday I ran back and forth half the day, through mud and grass and panic and prayer. I never washed them properly, because I was distracted.
I straighten slowly, closing the box with care and sliding it back into shadow. My hands still shake as I smooth my hair down, as I brush at the stains on my stockings.
A dream.
Only a dream.
"Raveena!"
Mama's voice calls from below, cutting clean through the fog still clinging to my thoughts.
"Raveena, hurry!"
I flinch. My heart jumps again, though this time for a reason I can name.
"I’m coming," I call back, forcing steadiness into my voice.
The room spins faintly before it steadies as I scramble to my feet. My hands fumble to twist my hair up, winding it tight against my head, fingers tugging harder than necessary. The dampness resists, cool against my palms. I swallow and secure it with a pin, praying the heat of the fire below will finish what it has begun. My dress comes down over mystockings in a rush of fabric. I smooth it once, twice, hiding the stains, hiding everything. The wool falls heavy and forgiving. Good.
My breath is still unsteady when I come down, each rung of the ladder taken too fast. At its feet, they are all waiting for me.
Mama stands at the table, her face alight with a smile I have not seen in days. Beside her, Doamna Irina beams too, her hands fluttering as if unable to keep still. Elena hovers at her side, eyes shining in a barely contained excitement.
"There you are," her mother steps forward without waiting, smile wide enough to ache. "We were beginning to think you’d decided to sleep the whole morning away."
"Or that you were hiding from us," Elena teases lightly, nudging me with her elbow.
Mama’s gaze sweeps over me—practiced. My heart stutters as it lingers on my hair, my sleeves, my hem. But, to my relief, she gives nothing more than a satisfied nod.
"We’ve come to help," Doamna Irina says, reaching for a linen cloth near the wall with eager hands. "It’s time."
Time?
"The dress," Elena clarifies, almost bouncing on her toes. "The seamstress is coming later this week, but Mama said we could start the fittings today."
For a heartbeat, I only stare at them. The dress.
The thought hits me, disorienting in its familiarity. Of course—the vows, Radu’s name spoken aloud, promised, sealed. White cloth. Gold thread. A future in motion.
"Yes," my voice rings strange in my ears. "The wedding."
Mama smiles then, small and relieved, as if something has been set right again.
"You’ll be beautiful," she says. "Everything will be as it should be."
