The morning mist lingered as though sorrow itself had settled over Valea Dracului. Dawn arrived on silent feet, pale and tentative, its light trapped in the billowing shroud that hugged rooftops and curled into doorways. Through that veil, the world beyond seemed dreamlike—sleeping giants of the Carpathian foothills, their forested slopes hidden beneath tendrils of fog, watching with ancient, unblinking eyes. A distant crow's cry split the hush, echoing once and then swallowed by silence.
Mara stood at the attic window, her forehead against the cold glass. Each breath she exhaled traced a fragile wisp that vanished on contact with the chill air. Below her, the house exhaled too: boards groaned as if stretching weary limbs, the hearth's final embers pulsed red in the growling hearth, and the scent of drying herbs—valerian, hyssop, rue—spoke of domestic rituals that once bound this family together. But now those rituals lay fractured, as brittle as the hope in Nicolae Voicu's heart.
Her fingers grazed the iron cross at her throat, feeling its smooth, worn edges—the last relic of her mother's faith. Each ridge told a story of silent supplication: desperate nights pleading for safety, long afternoons of kneeling at the church, the hush of communion. Mara closed her eyes, seeking in memory the warmth that once filled her soul. Yet it felt distant, like a half-remembered melody.
Below, her father's voice pierced the quiet:
"Mara! Come down—now!"
In those words lay all the gravity of his expectation, the weight of debts unpaid, the urgency of his plan. She drew a shuddering breath, stiffened her shoulders, and pushed back from the window. Faith trembled in her chest, but she clung to it—an anchor against the storm gathering within.
The stair's first step groaned beneath her weight. Each tread echoed with her father's footsteps over the years—triumphs in the marketplace, failures by the ledgers' dim light, visions of recovery that dissolved in bleak dawns. She descended slowly, her bare feet cold against the rough planks. She noticed, as she always did, how each board seemed worn in different ways: one deep-grooved by years of toil, another warped by damp winters. The house itself carried memory in its bones.
At the foot of the stairs, the front room lay in half-light. A single oil lamp flickered on the table, its flame dancing across endless rows of scribbled numbers in dusty ledgers. Jars of mustard seed and caraway sat in careful rows on a low shelf; beneath them, an overturned mortar lay cracked. A battered rug, once bright with floral motifs, was now muted and threadbare. And there, leaning on the table, stood Nicolae—gaunt, angled, his face a landscape of pain and resolve.
He did not turn to look at her. He set down his quill and folded his arms, the linen of his shirt creasing with the effort of remaining composed. The dying glow of embers in the hearth cast his shadow long and jagged against the wall, as if torment itself crouched behind him.
"Sit," he said, voice low.
Mara obeyed. She lowered herself onto a stool whose legs protested, and placed her hands in her lap. The iron cross rested on her blouse, a silent sentinel between them.
Her father drew a measured breath. "You will marry Ilie Drăgan before the month's end."
He waited for her to speak, but silence stretched—thick, unyielding. Mara's heart pounded so loudly she feared he might hear it. At last she lifted her chin, her voice quiet but firm.
"I don't want to."
The words struck the hush like flint on steel. For a moment, Nicolae said nothing. Then he straightened, shoulders squaring with brittle resolve.
"Do you think marriage is a choice? A trinket in a stall you can admire and then cast aside? We have debts—debts that cannot be erased with prayers or crosses. Ilie Drăgan buys us protection, coin in hand, safe passage for our goods. He is salvation, Mara."
She felt anger flare, warming the cold in her chest. "My life is not merchandise."
His mouth tightened. "You have no dowry, no prospects beyond this roof. I built what we have on trust—trust I extended again and again. You will obey."
Mara's fingers sought the wooden rosary hidden beneath her blouse. Each bead, worn smooth by her mother's touch, clicked softly between her thumb and forefinger. It was a silent prayer, a silent plea.
"I will never be Ilie Drăgan's wife," she whispered.
He closed his eyes, a scar across his face deepening. When he spoke again, his voice was brittle as old wood.
"Your mother was stubborn too."
Mara's heart caught. She drew a shuddering breath, the memory of her mother's laughter mingling with the scent of lavender in the convent's garden. "Stubbornness is a gift," she said. "She taught me to stand for what is right. You taught me fear."
Her father advanced, ledger pages drifting to the floor like fallen leaves. "Do you think prayer fills bellies or buys bread? The pious starve faster." He leaned close, voice hushed. "The more faithful, the hungrier."
She braced herself, heart pounding not with fear but with defiance. "Then let us starve."
He froze, staring at her with the hollow eyes of a man who once believed in grand designs and now saw only ruin. His hand dropped to his belt, where the steel of his knife caught the lamplight. He did not draw it, but its presence was a threat.
"You wear your cross like armor," he said softly, almost to himself. "But faith will not feed us."
Mara pressed her palm against the worn iron, feeling both its chill and the echo of her mother's prayers. "Faith gives me courage. Courage is stronger than gold."
The words hung heavy in the air. He stared long at her, the anger in his gaze melting into sorrow she could not name. Finally, he spoke—his voice raw.
"You are your mother's daughter." He turned away, lifted the battered lantern from the table, and left the room. The lamp's light followed him until it swung through the corridor, then vanished.
Mara remained seated, trembling but proud. She closed her eyes and began to whisper:
"Domnul meu, Dumnezeul meu, apără-mi sufletul..."
---
Night settled heavily over the house. In the attic loft, Mara lay on her narrow pallet, the rafters above forming a cathedral of shadows. The single shutter gave onto the mist-filled courtyard, where she could see the silhouette of the church cross. Every few minutes, the wind whispered through the cracks, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and distant pines.
She clutched the wooden rosary in both hands, its beads cold but reassuring. Each Hail Mary, each Our Father, was a small stand against the despair that threatened to overwhelm her. Sleep eluded her; her mind circled ceaselessly around that one word—marriage—and the fate that awaited her with Ilie Drăgan.
She pictured him: a broad-shouldered man with a hard jaw, rumored to be ruthless in business, generous only when it suited him. She had seen him in the marketplace, counting coins with an expression of cold calculation that left no doubt where his loyalties lay. His family was well connected; they would guarantee her father's debts—but what did they guarantee for her?
A memory surfaced: Mara at twelve, perched on her mother's lap in the church pew, listening to the priest speak of holy matrimony as a sacrament blessed by God. She had wondered then if love was part of that blessing or merely an afterthought. Now she wondered if her marriage would be sacrilege or a silent tragedy prayed into existence.
By the time the first pale light of dawn slipped beneath the shutters, Mara felt hollow with exhaustion yet awake with resolve. She rose carefully, mindful not to wake the household. She knelt by the cross carved into the attic joist and pressed her forehead to it.
"Give me strength," she whispered. "I cannot do this alone."
When she emerged, she wore her plain woolen skirt and linen blouse. She braided her hair tightly, knotting it at the nape of her neck. Around her throat lay the iron cross; in her pocket, the wooden rosary; in her hand, a small bread roll wrapped in coarse cloth. Nothing more would she carry.
Outside, the village awoke in shades of gray and green. Chickens clucked among puddles; smoke rose thinly from chimneys; shutters rattled as shopkeepers unlocked their stalls. Yet all of it felt remote to Mara, who moved as though under a spell, her heart beating a steady drum of anticipation and dread.
Her feet led her toward the church rather than the road to Ilie Drăgan's house. She crossed the square, each step echoing on the cobblestones, drawing curious glances from neighbors. By the time she reached the courtyard gate, the sun had broken through the mist in pale rays, gilding the wooden cross atop the small church with a trembling light.
She paused at the threshold, hand on the latch. Inside, the air was cool and smelled of incense and old wood. Sunbeams slanted through colored glass—reds and blues flickering onto the stone floor. Empty pews formed silent aisles leading to the altar, where a single candle burned before an icon of the Virgin. Mara knelt.
Her knees pressed into the hard stone, yet she felt warmth spread through her limbs. She closed her eyes and prayed not for escape, but for guidance—an answer to the question pressing at her heart: How could she honor both her father's need and her own soul's freedom?
The hush inside the church felt like a living presence. She sensed the centuries of believers who had knelt here, their hopes and fears woven into the walls like hidden tapestry. In that silence, she heard not only her own voice but something deeper, a whisper beyond words.
"Mara," came a soft voice behind her.
She turned to see Father Ioan, his silvered hair tied back, eyes gentle but grave. He held his hand in blessing.
"Child, what troubles you so? Your steps led you here before the market's bustle began."
She rose, smoothing her skirt. "I am troubled, Father. My father demands I marry a man I do not love, for reasons of coin and credit. He says my faith cannot feed us, yet I fear a marriage born of debt more than starvation."
Father Ioan studied her. "Debt and duty—chains of the world. But marriage before God is more than a contract; it is a covenant of souls. You must ask yourself: Will his household be a refuge or another prison?" He paused. "And will your heart enter it willingly, or will you bear it like a shackle?"
Mara closed her eyes, tears slipping down. "I do not know."
He placed a hand on her shoulder. "Then do not rush. Spend these days in prayer and reflection. Speak honestly with him—if you can—and with your father. Seek God's light; it does not always come in lightning flashes, but in patient dawns."
She nodded, voice barely a whisper. "Thank you, Father."
He blessed her again, and she left the church feeling slight relief, as if the quiet of the sanctuary had drawn poison from her veins.
That afternoon, she sat at the window again, pen poised over paper. Nicolae's ledgers lay nearby—reminders of the ruin that spurred her father's urgency. She dipped the quill in ink and began to write to Ilie Drăgan.
Her hand shook, and she tore out the page. The words felt false on the parchment. How could she ask for love when all she had were rumors and a desperate transaction? She closed her eyes, pressed the wooden rosary in her palm, and prayed:
"Domnul meu, luminează-mi gândurile."
She tried again, each word a prayer, each sentence a plead. At sunset, she set aside the unfinished letter. Instead, she wrote in her own journal, pouring out her fear and longing.
By the flickering candlelight, tears blurred the ink. Yet as she wrote, her heart seemed to lighten; the tangled mass of duty, fear, and faith began to sort itself into distinct strands she could examine.
Days passed in a blur of prayer, letters, and uneasy conversations. Ilie Drăgan arrived at the Voicu house one misty morning, his carriage wheels crushing dew-laden grass at the gate. Mara met him in the front room while Nicolae hovered at the hearth.
Ilie was taller than she expected, his shoulders broad beneath a fine wool coat. His pallor spoke of nights spent poring over accounts rather than sleeping. He greeted her with a polite bow, his dark eyes appraising but not unkind.
"Mara," he said, voice courteous. "Your father tells me this match shall bind our families and secure both our futures."
She inclined her head. "Yes."
He glanced at Nicolae. "Your debts concern me less than the matter of our understanding. If we are to wed, I wish to know your thoughts, your hopes. Marriage is more than ledger lines."
Her heart leaped. This was the moment Father Ioan had foreseen. "Then I shall speak plainly: I do not come to this union with love in my breast. I come only with duty, fear, and a prayer that love might be born."
He studied her, fingers drumming on his knee. "Fear is no shame. But neither is duty enough." He waited a beat, then added softly, "Tell me of the life you wish to live."