"Enough," she breathes near my ear.
"And at Irina’s house," another woman breaks in, voice rising, "she did not cross herself."
Silence falls for half a breath.
"She went straight to the body," the woman continues, encouraged now by the stillness. "Did not bow. Did not bless herself."
"And she put coins on Irina’s eyes," another says, louder. "Like in the old days."
"That is not the Church way," someone agrees without hesitation.
"Is that true, Alina? You were there."
All eyes shift toward my mother. She hesitates only a second.
"It is true," she relents slowly. "She did. I told her it was not the church way." Her lips press thin. "She insisted."
"And she did not listen," Doamna Anica presses.
Mama shakes her head once. "No."
A low hum begins. It builds quickly, layered voices overlapping.
"She knows too much of old things," Petru says darkly. "Her husband was a Calu?ar."
"Old ways," a man spits. "Pagan nonsense."
I stiffen.Calu?ar[25].So was my father.
The noise swells, voices overlapping.
"She lets the child run wild."
"She handled the corpse herself."
"She knew how to touch it."
"She wasn’t afraid."
"Because she knew."
Each sentence stacks upon the next, thin and brittle and cutting. A moment ago we were united in prayer, heads bowed together. Now we are turning, piece by piece, carving a shape from absence.
I lookaround at the faces I have known all my life. They are flushed now. Bright-eyed. Almost relieved.
Fear has found somewhere to rest.
Petru lifts his voice above the others.
"We must be careful," he says, though his tone carries no caution at all. "If something has been called into this village—if something walks among us—"
He does not finish.
He does not need to.
"Enough."
Popa Vasile’s staff strikes the stone.
