"We cannot let night fall with her unwashed," Petru insists. "Not with what is happening."
Unwashed.As though Neaga stands before us coated in something foul.
Popa Vasile lifts a hand.
"We will not wait until morning," he says calmly.
The finality in his voice silences any further debate.
"Fetch water," he orders.
Two boys bolt instantly toward the well. A man follows with a bucket swinging from his hand.
"It will be done here," Popa Vasile continues, stepping closer to the doorway. "Before darkness."
The yard tightens again—not in fury this time, but in anticipation.
He pauses beneath the doorframe, his gaze lifting to the the wreath crown.
"Now that you return to God," his tone is gentle, "you have no need for this."
With a softness that makes my stomach twist, he gestures toward it.
"As long as you stand in His light, no other protection is required."
I look at Neaga. For the first time since she agreed, something falters in her face. A pause too long to be harmless.
Popa Vasile turns his gaze on her fully.
"We will burn it. As a sign."
The word sign echoes unpleasantly in my chest. He inclines his head toward her door.
"Fetch a torch."
Neaga’s eyes meet mine. In hers, I see it clearly now. Hesitation. A flicker of resistance. But she nods, and without another word, steps back into the hut. Ilinca lingers only a second longer before slipping inside after her.
The yard hums with movement as water is carried back, as people shift for better sight, as the light bleeds slowly downward toward evening.
Neaga returns after a long minute, the torch burning low and steady in her hand. The flame trembles in the falling light, thin and bright, bending in the wind before straightening again. Its glow catches in her eyes, gilds the hollows of her cheeks.
She holds it out, and Popa Vasile takes it without touching her fingers, the light flares briefly between them.
He nods once toward the door.
"The crown."
The wreath still clings to the nail above the threshold, hanging crooked, stubborn in its place.
Neaga's fingers rise, then pause mid-air, before she reaches up and takes it down. The nail scrapes as the woven stems come free, as bits of dust fall in a thin drift. It looks smaller now. Frailer. No more than twigs and faded blossoms bound by thread. She steps forward and places the crown into Popa Vasile’s waiting hand.
He lifts it high enough for all to see. The torchlight dances over the brittle leaves, catching the pale underside of sage, the curled tips of thyme, the thin ribbon woven through it like a vein.
For a moment, it looks almost holy.
Then Popa Vasile lowers the flame, and the fire kisses the edge of the wreath. It hesitates only an instant before it catches. The dry stems flare bright, orange devouring brown, petals blackening in a breath. Smoke rises stinging the air. The woven circle curls inward as it burns, collapsing in on itself.
A few in the crowd murmur prayers. "Praise God," someone whispers. "Amen," another answers as the priest releases what remains, the burning wreath falling to the ground in a brief shower of sparks.
