Mama joins the women near the well. I stand close enough to hear, though they do not look at me as they speak.
"No blood this morning," Doamna Marica says, almost proud. "My Ion checked at dawn. All the sheep accounted for."
"I cannot believe they found nothing yesterday," another woman murmurs, lowering her voice, though there is no need. "Not a trace of them. It is as if they vanished."
"They fled," Mama replies. "God does not favor those who stir unrest."
Her voice holds steady now, as if the assumption itself keeps fear from returning.
The sheep shift again. One of the men runs a hand down their back, murmuring something soft and satisfied.
"Those savages are long gone," someone says behind us. "Better so."
A murmur of agreement follows. Heads nod as children dart between skirts. A woman chuckles, the sound almost shy, as though laughter itself must be reintroduced.
One of the younger lambs strains toward the priest, who stands on the steps with a small brass vessel, flicking droplets over wool and bowed heads alike.
"See?" Doamna Ileana says. "Peace comes when things are set in order."
Mama exhales slowly. "It was a trial. The Lord tests, and we endure," she says. She turns to me at last. "You go ahead," she says, brushing flour from her palm onto her apron. "Tend the fire. Start the supper before the light fades. I will stay a little longer."
"Yes, Mama."
She squeezes my arm once and turns back to the circle of women already drawing closer together, heads inclined in conversation. I step away from the square, the murmur of voices fading behind me. Someone begins speaking of harvest again, of grain that must be turned before dusk. The rhythm of life draws back into place.
I have taken only a few steps when a hand closes around my arm. I start, heart leaping, and turn—
Elena. Her smile is so wide her eyes narrow to slits under her shawl.
"You walk too fast," she says, tugging at my sleeve. "Are you trying to escape us all?"
"I have the fire to tend," I answer, though my voice comes lighter than it has in days.
"I will help."
I glance back toward the cluster of women near the church steps. "Does your mother not need you?"
Elena rolls her eyes lightly. "She is deep in counsel with Doamna Marica and the others. They have found a bench and will not rise from it until the sun sets." She leans closer, her voice lowering conspiratorially. "She will not notice I’m gone."
Her arm loops through mine before I can protest, making me laugh softly, the sound surprising me.
We walk together down the path, skirts brushing, our steps falling into the old rhythm we have known since childhood. The sun has risen higher now, warming the packed earth beneath our feet. A boy runs pastus with a stick, chasing a chicken that squawks indignantly. Somewhere, a door slams shut. Somewhere else, someone sings as they shake out a rug.
"It feels foolish now," Elena says, lowering her voice. "All that fear."
"Perhaps," I answer.
"The men came back without so much as a scratch," she continues. "Radu says they rode as far as the stream and back. Not even a broken branch."
"And no blood this morning," I nod.
"The travellers are long gone." Her head tilts, eyes bright. "Maybe they took their shadows with them."
I smile despite myself.
Maybe they did.
The words echo gently inside me.
