Wicked.
I straighten abruptly and reach for another piece of wood. It slips in my grip—I steady it before it falls. It was only a dream.
My feet are clean—I checked thoroughly before climbing down the ladder. No mud crusted between my toes. No crushed leaves clinging to my hem. No cuts fresh enough to sting.
Nothing more than a dream.
Sparks lift and die as mama laughs behind me, the sound brushing my back and fading. I nod without turning, hoping the motion answers whatever she expects from me. The flames climb higher, touching the door, the bench, the wall where the torches hang.
They rest in their brackets, bound tight with twine near the base, resin dark and hardened along the wood. One. Two. Three.
Three.
My mouth dries. Did we ever have a fourth?
The room tilts slightly, as if the floor has loosened beneath me. Ash smearing across my palm as I grip the edge of the hearth to steady myself.
Three; it has always been three. Hasn’t it?
A hand lands on my shoulder.
I jerk as if struck, the poker slipping from my fingers and striking the stone with a jarring clang, drawing the world back into place.
Mama stands over me, her brow drawn tight.
"Raveena. You are not listening."
"Forgive me, Mama," I answer quickly. "My thoughts wandered. Tell me again."
Her fingers tighten on my shoulder, gaze searching my face as though something there might reveal itself if she waits long enough. At last, she exhales and takes up her words again.
After eating and washing in haste, I dry my hands on my apron, not waiting for them to fully warm again. I braid my hair tighter than usual. My fingers tremble once and I pull harder, willing neatness to steady me.
The sun has barely lifted its edge above the fields, smoke rising in thin lines above the homes. A dog noses at the edge of the path and looks up as I pass, then settles again. No one calls after me.
The ground feels unsteady beneath my feet, though it lies flat as ever. I keep my eyes lowered, counting my steps without meaning to. If I move fast enough, perhaps the heat that still lingers will fade. Perhaps the memory of breath against my ear will loosen its hold.
I press my lips together, tasting where I bit them in the night. Only a dream.
My heart does not listen.
I do not look for any known face as I pass the well; I do not greet old Doamna Marica as she sweeps her threshold. The square lies empty, trampled earth still bearing the marks of boots from the night before. The church stands before me, its wooden walls darkened by years of weather, the small cross at its peak cutting into the morning sky. The hinges groan through rust and weight as I slip inside, the door heavy beneath my hand.
The walls rise close on either side, dark and unadorned, save for the icons set into their frames. Faces watch from gold-leaf backgrounds, their eyes large and solemn. Above the altar, Christ gazes downward, fixed and unblinking, his painted ribs jutting beneath taut skin.
I draw my shawl tighter around my shoulders, though the cold steadies me.
The walls stand firm and straight. The saints do not waver. The altar waits where it always has. Nothing shifts. Nothing vanishes.
I move farther inside, toward the front, my breath slowing despite myself. If something has taken root in me, it will be cut out here.
A door creaks behind the iconostasis, revealing Popa Vasile as he steps into the nave. His beard is still damp from washing, the morning light that catches into it turning the strands silver along their lengths. Surprise passes briefly over his face.
"Raveena. What brings you here so early?"
His voice carries easily in the empty space.
"The Divine Liturgy will be this afternoon, you need not hurry."
