I kneel.
The wood beneath my knees seeps cold through the wool of my skirts. I welcome it. I lower my head and let my hands fold together.
My lips move.
The words rise from memory first, steady and familiar. Our Father. Hail Mary. The phrases slip through me in a quiet stream. I feel them pass behind my teeth, across my tongue.
The church breathes around me. A cough somewhere in the nave. The soft scrape of boots. A coin touching wood.
I bow lower.
"Keep us from evil," I whisper.
My voice trembles once. I press my forehead closer to the floor.
The image of him flashes behind my closed eyes—red in the basin, blood at his mouth, rain running through his hair. My pulse stirs hard beneath my skin.
The candles tremble in a draft. Christ’s shadow stretches longer along the wall, bending over me.
"If this is sent from You," I breathe, "show me how to end it."
My throat tightens. I swallow and go on.
"Let my hand be steady."
Silence answers.
I remain there, breathing in wax and smoke and damp wool, until the tremor in my chest steadies. The weight inside me settles into something firm.
When I rise, my knees ache.
I cross myself—forehead, chest, shoulder to shoulder. My fingers press hard against my skin, marking the path, before I head through the door.
Outside, the storm has washed the sky clean. Sunlight breaks through in pale bands, catching on wet roofs and pooling in the ruts of the road. Water drips from the eaves in slow, steady taps.
Villagers stand in small clusters near the church steps. Their voices carry low and close, threaded with relief. The carcass of the wolf is gone from the square, but its absence lingers in the space it occupied.
I step down into the yard.
"Raveena."
Radu’s voice finds me before I see him. He stands a few feet away, hair is still damp from the rain, pushed back from his forehead with careless hands. There is dried mud along the hem of his tunic and a scrape blooms along the back of his hand, crusted dark. He comes toward me with an easy stride.
"How are you?" he asks, lowering his voice. "And Elena?"
I fold my hands together to keep them from shaking.
"She is stronger than she looks," I answer. "God does not give trials without strength to bear them. With His will, she will endure this."
He nods, jaw tightening briefly. "She will."
He glances toward the edge of the square, where a dark patch still stains the earth from the morning’s display.
"You have nothing to fear now," he says. "The wolf is dead. We tracked it to the ridge at dawn. It fought, but we finished it."
His mouth curves with quiet pride.
"It won’t come back."
