"Is it wise," she asks, voice tight, "for the child to see this?"
Ilinca does not lower her gaze. Her hair hangs wild around her face, eyes fixed on the body as if studying it.
Neaga’s chin lifts.
"Death walks beside us." Her voice carries farther than her breath should allow. "It does not wait for age." Her hand finds Ilinca's shoulder. "She must know its face. We all must."
Silence falls heavier than before. Someone crosses herself quickly. Another presses her lips to her closed fist and whispers a prayer under her breath.
Still, Neaga moves toward the table.
The circle opens for her, though not willingly, skirts shifting aside, shoulders turning away just enough to make space.
Mama reaches for a clean cloth and dips it into the basin. The water clouds as her fingers linger for a heartbeat before she draws the linen out, droplets falling back with soft taps. She draws the sign of the cross over herself, then lifts the linen sheet from Irina’s chest.
The fabric peels away from the skin with a faint sound, tacky where it has dried, as more of the wound comes into view. The wound yawns wider than before, dark and swollen at the borders. Blood has driedin thick seams along her neck and pooled beneath her ear before turning brown where the wood has swallowed it. One candle flame catches in the wet shine and makes it glisten, her skin drained to the colour of tallow.
The room shudders. Mama leans forward. Her hands shake as she presses the damp cloth against Irina’s throat, the linen darkening instantly. She dabs, then presses harder, as if force might restore order to what lies before her.
The head shifts—almost imperceptibly—a loosened tilt. Then it slips further, rolling sideways in her grip. The neck gives with a slow, yielding slackness, and the wound parts under its own weight. A thick, dark seep slips from within and runs toward the edge of the table. A low sound escapes—not from the lips, but from deeper in the torn throat, a guttural shift as something settles where it no longer belongs. One eye slips half open, the pupil rolling dull and unfocused toward the ceiling.
A woman near the wall gasps in horror.
Mama freezes.
Irina’s head hangs at an angle that strips her of all dignity, chin drawn toward shoulder, as if she has tried to listen too closely to something beneath her.
The cloth slips from Mama’s fingers and falls into the basin as Elena lets out a thin sound. Her grip on my arm tightens painfully, her weight shifting dangerously. I pull her down to the bench beside the wall before her knees give way completely.
Around us, shawls are drawn tighter across chests. One woman presses her fingers to her lips, stifling a cry. Another turns her face toward the icon and begins to whisper louder.
For a moment, no one moves. Then, Neaga steps forward. She reaches for the cloth, her fingers closing over it gently.
"Let me," she murmurs.
Mama does not release it right away. Her gaze remains fixed on the wound, on the tilt of Irina’s head. The room hums with breath and prayer. Finally, her grip loosens, and the linen passes from one hand to the other, the floor shifting beneath Mama's heels as she retreats.
Neaga slides one hand beneath Irina’s skull. Her palm cups the base of it, steady and firm. With the other, she supports the shoulder. The head rises carefully this time as she guides it back to the centre, easing itinto place as though settling a sleeping child. Her thumb presses gently over each eyelid. The lashes brush skin. The face regains a semblance of stillness.
Water drips from the cloth in thin lines. It runs across the torn flesh and down into the linen below. Neaga wipes in long, steady strokes, clearing the dried blood from collarbone to shoulder, from shoulder to sternum. The wound gapes under her hand, but she does not recoil. She cleans around it, never inside.
The women do not speak. They stand in a loose ring, skirts brushing the table’s edge, hands clasped at their waists. The candles lean in the draft from the windows, their flames restless, but Neaga’s movements remain even.
"We will need more cloth," she says quietly.
Mama’s eyes find mine across the room.
"Go," she says. "Bring the stack from the chest."
I nod.
Elena’s hand still grips mine. I squeeze it once, careful, grounding.
"I will be back," I whisper.
She nods, but her gaze stays fixed on the table, on the shape beneath the linen. Her fingers curl around my palm, then slip away. Water moves against the basin as I turn. The cloth passes over skin. The murmured prayers continue, low and unbroken, the scent of blood following me like a shadow.
I slip into the smaller room and pull the curtain halfway closed behind me.
