My hand lifts to my throat, fingers finding the tender skin beneath my ear again. Heat blooms there at the memory. His mouth. His breath. The way my body opened beneath his touch, yielding without command.
I swallow. I went to end him. I see again the silver pressed to his chest, the smoke rising from his skin. I hear my own breath breaking in the dark. The earth beneath my legs, the press of moss and leaf, his hands at my hips.
Shame floods me, burning hotter than the memory. I should recoil from it. Instead, my body remembers first. A dark sweetness curls deep in my belly. My thighs press together without my bidding. Heat gathers there, slow and insistent.
I liked it. The admission burns.
Worse still, the echo of his voice threads through the space behind my ribs.
Come to me.
I jerk my hand away from my throat as if struck.
"No," I whisper.
I push myself off the door. The room tilts for a heartbeat before steadying. My hands move quickly, almost blindly as I pull my coat from its peg and shrug it on. The fabric scratches against my heated skin. From the shelf beside the hearth, the small glass vial waits. The water inside it shifts and glints as I grab it and head for the door again, steps already carrying me forward.
The church rises before me in a handful of breaths. I cross the threshold without slowing.
Inside, dawn seeps through the high windows in thin bands, laying pale strips across the floor. Candles gutter low along the walls, their flames small and steady. The door closes behind me with a muted thud, and silence settles.
Empty.
My footsteps echo as I move forward. I cross myself once. Twice. Three times. My fingers shake against my brow and chest
The icons line the walls in silent rows, their faces emerging from shadow and gold leaf. Eyes follow me as I pass. Their gazes settle on my shoulders, my hands, my throat. The air feels heavier beneath them. My breath shortens.
I reach the basin.
The water rests still in its shallow bowl. My reflection floats there, wavering. I uncork the vial with clumsy fingers. Glass gives a faint click against stone as I dip it beneath the surface. Ripples spread across the surface, breaking the image that floats there.
My own face wavers and reforms.
The girl in the water looks flushed. Colour rests high in her cheeks. Her skin gleams faintly in the morning light. I search for sickness and find none. My lips part slightly. My eyes shine too brightly.
They slide to my neck. With shaking hands, I sweep my hair aside. The skin there rises pale from the water’s shimmer. Two small marksdarken it, barely there. Anyone else would pass over them without a second glance.
I cannot. They burn under my touch.
"Child."
The sound breaks the stillness.
My hand jerks. The vial slips from my fingers and strikes the stone, glass scattering across the floor.
Popa Vasile stands a few paces behind, hands folded into the sleeves of his robe. Morning light gathers along the edge of his cassock.
"I—" My voice falters. Heat floods my face. "Forgive me, Father. I only came to take holy water. We had none left."
I crouch, reaching for the broken pieces frantically. The shards gleam faintly against the floor, and one slices across my skin before I feel it. A biting sting follows, making me hiss as a bead of red wells up and spills on my fingertip.
"Stop."
Before I can gather another shard, the priest's hand closes around my wrist, lifting me from the floor as though I weigh nothing at all. I rise with him, the broken glass left scattered between us.
"You will only hurt yourself further."
My finger throbs. Blood slides down to my knuckle.
