Petru's gaze shifts across the rows of kneeling bodies, counting.
"Neaga."
The name lands heavily.
"And the girl."
A small stir moves through the church. I feel it before I hear it—the slight change in breath, in posture. Bodies angling. Eyes narrowing.
"Neaga?" Doamna Anica repeats, uncertain. "She is ill."
Petru shakes his head. "Ill or not, she is not here. Not today. Not yesterday."
A murmur rises immediately.
"That is true," someone whispers behind me.
"She never comes," another voice adds, louder now.
I frown. Neaga struggles to leave her bed some mornings. Everyone knows that. They have seen her cough until she folds in half. They have seen her limp to the well with her back bent like an old woman’s.
"She cannot—" I begin.
Mama’s hand snaps against my wrist, so hard the sting shocks me into silence. She does not look at me. Her fingers remain wrapped around my arm, warning, and it's already too late.
"She stays in that hut of hers," a man hisses. "Always apart."
Petru nods once, as if something has just aligned. "I passed her place at dawn," he says. "The sheep—" His voice catches, but he pushes through it. "They were not far. Closer to her field than to mine."
"That means nothing," someone protests weakly.
"It means something," Petru insists, emboldened now that he is not alone. "I saw it with my own eyes. The blood trail ran toward that side of the field."
"Blood runs downhill," another man mutters, but he does not sound convinced.
"And the smoke," Doamna Marica says, voice breaking through. "I have seen smoke from her chimney long after midnight. More than once."
"At odd hours," someone echoes.
"What does she burn at night?"
The word strigoi slides through the crowd again, softer this time, but steadier.
"My daughter says the girl is not baptized," a thin voice pipes up from near the altar. "Is that true?"
A silence, held taught.
"The child cannot hear the Word," someone else says quickly. "How can she receive it?"
"Maybe that is why she cannot hear," another answers. "Because she was never given to God."
A few people cross themselves hurriedly.
My stomach drops.
"No," I say, before I can stop myself. "That is not—"
Mama’s grip tightens, nails digging into my skin.
