As it should be.
I let myself be guided toward the bench, toward the folded linen laid out with care. Soon, their voices fill the room—soft, excited, planning ahead. Measurements. Adjustments. Small details spoken of with certainty and joy.
Doamna Irina smooths the fabric with both palms, pressing down as if it might remember the shape of her hands. It is plain cloth—thick, stiff to the touch, the colour of unbleached wool. It holds its shape even before it is lifted, as if already certain of what it will become. Elena gathers one end while Mama brings the other, and together they raise it and settle it over my shoulders.
The weight surprises me. It falls straight down, heavy and narrow, brushing my arms, my hips. Mama steps closer, her eyes shining as she adjusts the line at my collar, tugging once, twice, until it sits just so. "There."
Elena moves around us, light on her feet, fingers quick as she pinches and folds, imagining seams where there are none yet. Her smile never leaves her face.
"It suits you," she exclaims softly. "I knew it would. I’m so happy for you."
Her hands linger at my waist, pressing the fabric inward, measuring by feel.
Irina nods. "Such a good match. Strong. Reliable. You’ll never want for anything."
Her gaze drifts to my mother, lingering for a moment before she lets out a short laugh. "Do you remember," she says, "when they were little?"
Mama hums in agreement.
"Every time the children played catch," Irina goes on, "Radu was always chasing after you." Her eyes crinkle as she glances up at me. "Running himself breathless until he was red in the face."
I feel Elena’s hands pause at my side.
"It wasn’t just Radu," she huffs. "All the boys tried. Every one of them."
She steps back, her head tilting as she studies the fall of the cloth. "And she never let herself be caught."
Mama’s smile deepens. "You always were hard to hold. Always slipping away."
"Well," Irina's laughs rings again, louder this time, "it seems he caught her at last."
She reaches out and tugs the fabric tighter, the pull firm as she pats it flat, already wondering about hems and seams, of how much cloth will be needed, of where the seamstress might cut to save material.
They voices overlap as they speak now —about the wedding feast, about guests, about how quickly children grow into their places. Mama nods along, her gaze never leaving me, as though she is already seeing something finished where I still stand wrapped in rough cloth.
I stand still, trying to follow.
I nod when they pause. I smile when it is expected. My mouth forms the right sounds at the right moments. The fabric rests against my skin, reminding me of where I am meant to stand with every small pull and pinch.
Still—
the forest presses in.
Enchantress.
Voices blur at the margins, their meaning thinning as if drawn too far. I feel heat along my throat, the remembered lift of my chin, the way my body leaned before I could ask it to. The scent of moonflowers seems to rise where there are none, clinging to the back of my tongue.
My fingers press together, grounding myself in the feel of cloth and thread—
when a sudden, brutal sting flares along my leg.
I hiss, my body jerking back on instinct.
"Oh—oh, child," Doamna Irina stammers. "I’m sorry. I slipped."
The room rushes back into place. Heat, brightness. Faces close and concerned.
At my feet, Irina's hand lifts and the needle catches the light, a small bead of red already welling at the tip.
