Their words layer over mine until I cannot find them anymore.
I push to my feet. "Wait—"
No one hears me.
"We cannot just—" I try again, louder.
Mama catches my sleeve. "Raveena," she warns.
"They’re frightened," I say, turning to her. "She is ill. She can barely walk—"
"Then she should not have isolated herself," her voice tightens. "This is for her own good."
Elena is already standing. Her face is pale, but she does not resist when the people around her begin to move.
"It will clear her name," she murmurs.
Popa Vasile’s gaze rests on me for a moment. Not unkind. Not kind either.
"We will not harm her," he says calmly. "If she has nothing to hide, she has nothing to fear."
His expression is grave, almost paternal. But his eyes are bright.
"We go in prayer," he says as he reaches the entrance. "Not in anger."
The doors are thrown open. Daylight floods in, the congregation spilling out after him like a tide. I step after them, heart pounding, the mark on my neck burning as if it knows what is coming.
"Please," I say once more, but the word dissolves into the roar of boots on earth.
The path to Neaga’s hut feels shorter than it ever has. Or perhaps it is only that we move too fast. People glance at each other now, at windows, chimneys. At shadows that have always been there.
"What if there are more?"
"What if it has already marked another house?"
Each question feeds the next, and my mind races uselessly. This is my fault. The sheep. The forest. The blade in my hand. The mark on my neck.
If I had ended it—
My stomach twists so tightly I nearly stumble.
Neaga’s hut comes into view at the edge of the clearing, low and crooked, smoke barely threading from the chimney. The crowd slows—but only because it must compress itself around the narrow fence. Someone pushes the gate open in a shriek.
"Look," a man near the front stops short.
Above Neaga’s door, tied carefully between two nails, hangs a small wreath.
Dried flowers. Pale and brittle. Sprigs of thyme. A twist of woven grass. A few faded leaves tucked in with deliberate care. It looks like something meant to welcome spring. Harmless. My father used to make them smaller than that.
"Witch," someone breathes.
The word lands heavy and clear. It spreads instantly.
"Witch!"
Men surge forward. Someone kicks at the bundle, scattering dirt. A child begins crying somewhere behind me. A stone hits the side of the hut with a hard crack.
"Come out!" Petru shouts.
