"These hands—" she chuckles, flustered. "They don’t listen the way they used to. Let me see."
She reaches for my skirts.
I move faster.
"It’s nothing," My hands come down, holding the fabric in place. "Truly. I barely felt it."
Elena leans in. "Did it catch you badly?"
"No. Nothing more than a prick."
Irina’s brows knit. "But there’s blood—"
"It’s fine," I insist, heart racing. "Please. Don’t trouble yourself."
Irina draws back at last, waving a hand as if to brush the moment away. "I’m clumsy today. Old fingers, always in a hurry."
The talk resumes.
The needle flashes as it is set back to work, careful now, precise over the steady rise and fall of their voices.
The lake recedes. The room remains.
And I stand still, leg throbbing faintly, my skirts held close.
Chapter Two
The light beyond the doorway has begun to soften when Mama sends me out, the sky bruising into purple and orange. Shadows lengthen, the evening settling its weight. I walk quickly, skirts gathered, mindful of the way the obscurity is already claiming the outlines of things.
The well comes into view after a moment, standing open at the edge of the square.
Radu is leaning against the stone rim, one arm resting easy at his side. His mother stands beside him, her shawl drawn neatly around her shoulders, her gaze drifting across the square as if measuring what remains of the day. They turn when they hear me approach.
"Buna seara,"[17] I say, stopping at the proper distance.
"Buna seara, Raveena," Doamna Rodica replies with a pleasant smile. "Out so late?"
"Only for water. Mama asked."
Radu’s eyes lingers as I step past them, a curve settling on his mouth. It is an easy thing, that smile—it lights something in me before I have time to stop it, my face warming instantly. My eyes remain lowered, my grip adjusting on the bucket.
I set it down and unwind the rope from its peg, the fibres rasping against my skin as they slide through my hands. My hands test the knot, tighten it, then guide the bucket over the rim. It tips and drops, cord slipping fast, the hollow sound of water rising to meet it.
"How is your mother?" Doamna Rodica asks. "She looked tired yesterday."
"She has been coughing," I say, keeping my voice even. "But she says she feels stronger."
"That is good," she nods. "This damp does no one favors."
The rope stills, then loosens. It bites into my palms, rough against tender skin as I tighten my grip and lean back slightly, setting my feet. Inch by inch, the bucket rises, water sloshing faintly below. My arms tense. My shoulders follow.
All the while, the voice of Radu's mother never stops, droning on about the weather, the harvest, how quickly the days shorten now. Her words pass over me, my focus narrowing to the pull and release, pull and release. At some point, the cord slides, then catches. I adjust, my breath shortening, the strain gathering along my forearms as the bucket nears the stone rim, heavier as it comes.
Doamna Rodica tilts her head, her tone unchanged.
"Radu," she prompts mildly, "don’t just stand there. Help her."
He moves before I can speak. His hand closes around the rope above mine, firm and certain, already taking the weight.
