Silence stretches between us, my mouth closing instantly.
She is mourning. It is natural she does not want to speak of curses. Meaning does not belong in something so brutal.
I nod slowly. "Yes. You are right."
Across the room, someone begins to sob again. My eyes look down at our joined hands, when the curtain shifts. Mama stands behind it, her face drawn tight beneath her kerchief.
"It is time," she says.
Elena’s fingers loosen around mine, though she does not let go. She nods once, rising together with me.
In the main room, candles crowd every surface. Their flames bend and tremble in the draft from the open windows. The shutters are thrown wide despite the cold. A sheet has been drawn over the polished copper basin near the hearth. Even the dull metal ladle is turned face down against the wall.
Doamna Irina lies on the dinner table.
The bowls are gone. The bread is gone. In their place, her body stretches from the icon corner toward the door, feet nearly touching the threshold, head turned toward the small painted Christ fixed high on the wall. Someone has drawn a sheet covers her from collarbone to ankles, and her hands rest over her stomach under it, though the fingers will not lie flat.
Women stand around the table in a half-circle, skirts brushing the packed earth. Their shawls are dark. Their voices move together in low murmurs, prayers slipping over one another until they form a steady hum. One crosses herself again and again. Another presses cloth against Irina’s hands as though they might still answer.
The windows breathe cold air into the room, stirring the hanging cloths that now cover every polished bowl, every strip of metal, every surface that might catch a reflection. So she may not see herself. So she may not mistake her own face and linger.
Elena’s nails dig into my arm, her weight leaning into me as if the floor has shifted beneath her feet. Her fingers climb higher along my sleeve until she is clutching at my shoulder, her breath fanning against my neck, uneven
I look at her mother. A strand of her hair has fallen across her temple. It sticks there, stiff with dried blood. For a moment, I remember her hands smoothing fabric, her voice laughing low in the kitchen.
Mama steps forward.
"Bring water," she says.
The prayers do not stop.
They move around the table like a current, circling the body, circling the open throat, circling the windows where the air slips in and out as though the house itself is breathing her away.
A draft slips through the open window and bends the candle flames, making the room turns its head as one.
Neaga stands in the doorway. She grips the frame as if the wood holds her upright, breath dragging in and out of her chest. Her hair hangs loose, uncombed, falling over one eye, and her skin carries the gray of long illness, yet she stands upright. Ilinca stands just behind her, fingers curled in the fold of her mother’s skirt.
The murmuring falters as they step inside.
Neaga does not cross herself, does not bow to the icon. Instead, she walks straight to Elena.
"I am sorry for your loss," she says, her voice low and worn. "Your mother was a strong woman. May her path be gentle."
The words fall plainly, without blessing. Elena swallows. Her fingers leave my arm long enough to clutch at her skirts.
"Neaga," Mama says cautiously, wiping her hands on her apron. "You should be resting."
I step forward before I can stop myself.
"You are still weak," I say. "You need—"
"I can stand," Neaga answers.
Her eyes move to the table. They do not flinch.
"I will help."
The women exchange glances. One of the older ones shifts near the wall then, her gaze fixing on Ilinca.
