The resin from the pine buds still clings to my palms. My thumb rubs lightly against my forefinger, feeling the tacky resistance there, breathing in the faint, betraying scent that lingers despite the herbs and smoke. I keep my hands folded in my lap until the feeling fades into something I can ignore.
Mama finishes her cup and sets it aside. She exhales, longer this time, and the sound eases something in me. Still, she rises with effort, straightening her back as she always does, pride stubborn even in weariness.
"It’s time," she says gently. "Come."
We kneel together before the hearth.
The small wooden cross watches from the wall above it, dark with age, its edges smoothed by countless hands and years. Firelight trembles across it, turning the carved figure into shadow and glow. Mama crosses herself first—forehead, chest, right shoulder, left. I follow, matching her movements.
Then, she bows her head and begins.
"Tatal nostru, Care e?ti în ceruri, sfin?easca-se numele Tau…" The cadence changes as she speaks the words—flatter, unyielding. "Vie împara?ia Ta. Faca-se voia Ta…"[6]
I repeat after her, keeping pace as she asks for protection, forgiveness, for the cleansing of sins known and hiden. The words press close, tight as the room itself.
"…?i ne cura?e?te pe noi de toata necura?ia, trupeasca ?i sufleteasca…"[7]
I echo each line without faltering, word for word, my voice barely more than air. The fire pops in small bursts. The house listens.
When the prayer ends, Mama crosses herself once more and rises. I follow, knees stiff, my head bowed. The cross remains on the wall, silent and unmoved as the fire dims to embers. Outside, the night presses close.
We rise together, Mama's hand pressing briefly to her lower back as she straightens.
"Noapte buna, copila mea[8]," she smiles, voice already heavy with sleep.
"Noapte buna, Mama."
She moves to her side chamber and draws the wool curtain across the doorway, the fabric giving the same eternal faint rasp as it slides along its cord, leaving only the sound of her careful steps settling into stillness.
I turn toward the narrow ladder, gripping the sides to pull myself up. Above, the space under the roof opens, the scent of old straw, dried plants, and smoke clinging to everything.
This is mine.
My bed is little more than a low frame stuffed with straw and wool, a rough blanket folded at its foot. Beside it, my rare belongings are tucked neatly against the wall—clothes, a comb, a few ribbons worn thin from use.
I kneel and reach beneath the bed, my fingers searching until I find the wooden box. It slides free with a dry scrape, no bigger than a loaf of bread, its lid scarred with shallow marks. Inside, bundles lie wrapped in cloth and twine, sorted with care: dried yarrow, pale and feathery; darkened plantain leaves; a few shriveled elderflowers; thyme, still faintly fragrant; juniper berries, hard and blue-black.
I count them once, then again, my fingers hovering over the smallest bundle. Not much left.
A frown settles as I reach deeper.
Mugwort—only a pinch now, crumbling between my fingers. The juniper, too, has thinned more than I realized. I tie the cords back into place with care, mind already measuring what I will need.
Tonight, the moon is full—it will have to wait no longer.
The box slides back beneath the bed, and I straighten, easing onto the pallet. The roof beams loom close overhead, dark ribs against darker shadow. Through a narrow gap between boards, light slips in—cold and silver, cutting a thin line across the floor.
I lie back and pull the blanket up to my chest.
Below me, Mama’s breathing has evened out. The fire has burned low. Outside, the night stretches wide and watchful.
Sleep does not come.
I wait.
Chapter Two
The house has fully given itself to sleep when I move.
