The answer causes a ripple of outrage.
"She refuses the Church!"
"She thinks herself above us!"
Petru points toward the wreath above the door. "And that?" he demands. "What is that?"
Neaga glances upward, confused. "That?" she says. "Dry herbs."
Her tone is dismissive. Almost bored.
"For fever. For flies. For whatever else wishes to cross my door. Protection."
"Protection from what?" Petru presses.
"From foolishness, perhaps," she answers, too quick.
A ripple of outrage surges through the crowd.
"Witch."
The word is no longer whispered.
Neaga stiffens. "Do not be ridiculous," she snaps. "It is thyme and sage. Nothing more."
"Pagan ways," someone shouts.
"Calu?ar tricks."
Ilinca presses her face into her mother’s side, fingers digging into fabric. Her small shoulders shake.
"Your child is unclean," a woman cries.
Neaga’s composure cracks. "Do not speak of my daughter."
The yard tightens around them.
"Expel her," someone shouts over the others.
The word lands heavy.
Expel.
"Yes."
"She brings misfortune."
"The sheep were found near here—"
"She called it."
"I did no such thing!" Neaga shouts, panic threading through her voice now. "I have done nothing."
"Send her away."
"Drive her out before worse comes."
Neaga retreats fully into the doorway now, one hand braced against the frame as if it might hold the weight of them back. Ilinca disappears further behind her.
