The crowd surges forward again—hands lifting, voices overlapping, no longer seeking answers but demanding punishment.
My chest feels hollow.
This is slipping. This is no longer about herbs or Mass or sheep. This is hunger.
And it wants a body.
Before I understand what I am doing, I push through the press of shoulders and arms.
"Wait!"
The word tears out of me. I shove harder, forcing myself to the front until I stand between them and the doorway.
"She has been wanting to come back," I say quickly, breathless. "To the church. She told me herself."
The noise falters. The shouting frays into uneven breaths, into the rustle of skirts and the scrape of boots shifting against dirt. Neaga looks at me, startled, as every face turns toward me.
Petru’s mouth is half open, mid-accusation. Mama’s fingers clutch at her shawl. Elena stares at me as if I have stepped into fire without noticing. I feel their weight press against my skin. My heart slams so hardI feel it in my teeth. My palms are damp. My voice feels too small for what I have started.
But I do not step back. If I stop now, they will tear her apart.
"She has been afraid," I repeat, my voice trembling despite myself. "Afraid you would not welcome her."
My breath comes too fast, but the words keep coming. They tumble over one another before I can measure them.
"Have we not prayed all day?" I ask. "Have we not begged God for mercy?"
The silence tightens.
"If we ask for mercy," I continue, louder now, "should we not give it?"
A few heads shift. Some lower their gaze.
"She is ill," I press on. "She is alone. Did not the Lord say we must seek the lost sheep? That we must carry it back ourselves?"
I hear my own voice and barely recognize it.
"If evil seeks weakness," I say, echoing the priest’s words, "then perhaps it seeks the cracks we make when we turn on one another."
Petru shifts his weight. Someone mutters, "She is right…"
"We call this a test," I press on, seizing the space before it closes. "We say this is a blessing meant to bring us together."
My voice steadies.
"Then let us be together."
The wind moves through the torn herbs at our feet, scattering brittle leaves against boots. I take a breath that feels like stepping off a cliff.
"She wants her daughter under God’s protection. She wants Ilinca baptized."
The lie burns hot in my mouth, yet not hotter than their gazes.
I lift my eyes despite myself—and meet them.
Mama’s brow drawn tight, searching my face as if she does not recognize me. Elena’s lips, parted slightly, her stillness too deliberate. Radu staring, uncertain, something flickering behind his eyes that I cannot name.
It tightens something in my chest. For a moment, my voice threatens to falter.
