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The men debate a bit more before deciding to leave. “We’ll tell him we didn’t see any sign of her.”

Fog curls in, changing the scene once more. I am back in the bunja, hunched over the book. In my hands, I grip a piece of charcoal, sketching frantically on a blank page. The portrait is brusque, but I recognize the man’s cool gaze. My ancestor Nikola Klarin.

Alarm rings in my mind. Perhaps the stories are true. The mora fawned over him from afar, and when he didn’t return her affections, she let forth her anger, cursing our family. But something doesn’t seem right. Right now, she seems too fragile. Too human.

Another shift brought on by the fog. I am kneeling on the ground, eating something small—blackberries, staining my skin. I ram handfuls into my mouth. My apron is dirtier than before, spotted with tears and holes. Even when the berries are done, my insides roar with hunger.

Suddenly, another sensation churns in my gut. Nausea. My hand flies to my stomach as I scramble outside the hut, hurling up the berries and bile. Perhaps they weren’t safe to eat? I remain bent over, panting, but then I straighten suddenly, letting out a peal of gleeful laughter. The force of it is unsettling; I want to stop but can’t.

The scene morphs once more. I’m digging a hole inside the bunja now, using a long, flat stone. Despite the hunger still clawing within me, I work with a frantic energy. When there’s a decent-sized hole, I wrap the book I had drawn in before and place it inside. I then cover the hole with dirt and roll a large stone on top, as if marking the spot.

From the burlap bag, I pull out a crown, woven with red thread and adorned with silvery pearls. Placing it on my head, I step outside.

It is night; the stars burn fiercely above. Just outside the entrance, I pause, my hands settling over my stomach as I gaze up at the sky. An eerie calm falls over me as I inhale deeply. At this moment, I am confident. Full of hope. But deep down, there is also dread, belonging only to me.

As I begin to walk across the field, a hazy mist consumes me. The strange wave of pressure nudges my body again, carrying me back to the present.

A flash of sunlight blinds me. I’m standing outside the bunja, in the same spot as moments before, but my body and my clothes are my own.

I step tentatively back inside the hut, wondering if I’ll somehow be transported to the past again. But nothing happens. The bunja is empty. No scattered belongings or fire. Just the stone I was sitting on.

The stone I placed over the buried book.

With a lurch, I fall to the ground and heave it aside. My fingers scrape at the dirt, but it’s too packed. Frustrated, I hurry outside and search for a flat stone, similar to the one the mora used in my vision. Finding one, I return and dig more fervently. A crazed urgency comes over me. This is ridiculous, but I need to know. If I find it, it means what I just saw was real. That it happened.

And then my stone hits something. A sliver of red peeks through the dirt. My heart races as I dig more frantically. I lift the bundle with shaking hands. The shawl is dirty and threadbare, but it matches exactly. Carefully, I set it on the ground and unwrap it. Before me lies the book. The one belonging to the mora.

I gently flip through the frail pages. They’re filled with a slanting script and illustrations of different plants and herbs. Several dates precede paragraphs of text. I realize then what this is—a diary.

All I’d ever want to know must be in here. The thoughts of the mora. What compelled her to curse my family. Except, instead of fixating on some way to vanquish her, a new curiosity stirs inside me. This creature who hungered and hid and cried didn’t seem like a monster, but merely a woman afraid.

My hand falters as it reaches the end and finds the portrait of Nikola. It is one of many. A sentence on the opposite page beside it leaps out at me: I must go to Nikola at once.

Before I close the book, I notice a single line I missed before, scrawled in the top right corner of the first page. My heartbeat quickens as I read it, imagining the mora herself writing the words. Except now she is not simply the mora. Now she has a name.

This diary belongs to Magdalena Derokov.

Twenty-One

Magdalena

3 July 1895

I have splendid news—Nikola is to be engaged!

I overheard it from some women at the market. Apparently, once Marko returned to Tolba, he ordered extra wine for their Lavanda Gala, telling the merchant his son would announce his engagement then. I had forgotten all about that event, though I suppose the time of year is right. They always hold it sometime after the harvest. Ana must’ve said something, told them her wish.

The women were all atwitter, pondering who could be the lucky bride. One of them guessed a woman from Vienna, where Marko had visited. Another thought it was Dobrila. I almost laughed. I wished so dearly to say something, to see the looks on their faces when they knew it must be me. Who else would Nikola choose, when it was me he had taken to his bed? Perhaps he meant it as a surprise, one I was not meant to overhear. I do not have any family for him to ask permission, after all.

If only Marko weren’t back, so I could speak to Nikola immediately. He said he would find a way to visit me before the full moon, but when? Night is falling, and I’ve grown used to always spending it at Lavender House. Our own home seems drearier than I remember. Emptier.

I hope he comes soon.

4 July 1895

Still no sign of Nikola. I imagine he must be busy, preparing for the gala, caring for his mother. I am listless and bereft without him.

To make matters worse, I encountered Dobrila.