"Show yourself!"
Fists pound against the wooden door. The thin planks rattle in their frame.
"Come out, Neaga!"
My heart slams against my ribs.
The shouting grows uglier now. The word strigoi slips between the screams, then curse, then witch again, louder each time, until it is no longer accusation but verdict.
The door trembles before it opens, just enough to reveal a narrow strip of darkness inside. And there—small, barefoot in the doorway—stands little Ilinca. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide, too large for her face, reflecting the mob like trapped light.
For one heartbeat, the shouting falters. Then the noise swells again, harsher than before. Ilinca flinches at the movement if not the sound. Her gaze flickers across the faces, confused, frightened. She presses one hand against the doorframe as if to steady herself.
"Where is your mother?" a man shouts, stepping forward.
She does not answer. She cannot. She stares at the moving mouths, the raised hands, the twisting faces.
"See?" someone cries. "See how she stares!"
"She mocks us!"
I push forward without thinking. "Stop. You’re frightening her!" I shout, finally forcing the words out right as a stone strikes the doorframe inches from her hand.
Ilinca jerks back and for a single heartbeat, her eyes find mine. Then, as the noise crashes forward again, she pulls the door closed. The wood slams shut, the bolt dropping from inside with a small, final sound.
The mob erupts, the restraint only held by a thread snapping completely.
Hands pound against wood. Fists slam against the fence.
"She hides!"
"She refuses!"
The silence after the door slams lasts only a heartbeat. Then the latch shifts again, and this time, Neaga stands there.
She looks frailer than she ever has, thin shoulders wrapped in a faded shawl, skin pale and stretched thin over bone. Her hair hangs loose, uncombed. She squints at the crowd as though trying to make sense of it. Ilinca clings to the back of her skirt, half-hidden behind her hip.
"What is this?" Neaga's voice comes hoarse. "Why are you shouting?"
"Why weren’t you at Mass?" Petru demands, stepping so close his boots nearly touch her threshold.
Neaga blinks at him. "I am ill," she says plainly.
"You could have sent the girl."
"She never sends anyone."
"I can barely walk to the well," Neaga replies, irritation flickering across her face. "You expect me to kneel for hours?"
"That did not stop you tending Irina’s corpse," someone snaps.
Neaga stiffens. "Irina was my friend."
"And God is not?" a woman calls harshly.
A murmur swells.
Neaga’s mouth curves faintly, not quite a smile. "I pray at home," she says. "I do not need to kneel here to be heard."
