Page 75 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“Hello,” she says. Then goes on to speak Romanian at me.
Zeke explains I can’t speak Romanian. She pouts and then looks at him. She blinks, blushes, and mumbles something before rushing into the house. I hide a smile.
“I think we can go inside,” Zeke offers, confused.
“You’re such a lady killer,” I tease.
His eyes sparkle. “I know.”
“Also arrogant.”
“That too.”
I scoff and head inside. Zeke closes the door behind us. It’s also covered in painted flowers. We find our way to the kitchen. This cabin is similar to ours, with a lot of shared space. I don’t see private bedrooms, just the loft upstairs and a glimpse of multiple beds. The whole family lives here?
The dining table is by the window. A fireplace burns and provides heat along with the oven in the kitchen. They live simply, without much space, fanfare, or luxury. It reminds me a little of the abbey in its simplicity and honesty. I guess the colorful flower patterns painted everywhere are to brighten the small area on gloomy, snowy days.
I’m happy to see a painting of the pope hanging over the fireplace—it means they will be more inclined to know the local folklore surrounding the church. They might know if there’s any validity to this helmet being made from the nails that crucified Jesus. Hopefully, we will get answers.
A brunette woman with a scarf in her hair stirs something on the stove. The girl who let us into the house is there. She mumbles something to the mother, takes a bowl of mashed potatoes, and ducks her gaze as she hurries to the long wooden table.
The mother smiles warmly at us before gesturing at the table. “You sit.”
Orlov arrives with a teenage son, each carrying bottles in their hands. It’s not wine, but some kind of homebrew.
“Is good to see you again,” Orlov says. “This is my family. My daughter Paula, my son Matei, and my wife Claudia. All good strong Catholic names. I am the only one who is the bad one.” He laughs heartily. “Good thing my family will keep reminding me.”
It takes me a moment to realize what he means, but then I see he’s trying to connect with me being a nun. Some of us joined the Sisterhood and took religious names. I, however, couldn’t completely let go of mine.
“I’m afraid I’m in the same boat as you, Orlov. Sister Leila isn’t quite a biblical name, but I don’t think the Lord will mind as long as our hearts are in the right place.”
Matei has been studying me curiously since they arrived. He listens carefully, and then, just when I think he needs Zeke to translate, he blurts, “You do not look like a nun.”
I laugh. I seem to be doing that a lot lately. “Modern nuns look different worldwide, but I am a special nun. I travel far and wide hunting for relics of importance to the church. So sometimes I must dress differently.”
Zeke takes his beanie off to hide his growing scowl. I know he doesn’t like how easily the lies fall off my tongue. But he’s no saint, despite the men he arrived with at the abbey. I guess, what I understand about that reaction is that he’s trying to be. Sinners wouldn’t be needed if more people tried to be honest.
“Are you looking for something here?” Matei asks. “In our village?”
“First, we serve our guests pálinka and food, Matei. It is rude to question before.”
A blush hits Matei’s pale cheeks, and he dips his gaze.
“Oh, I don’t mind.” I smile at the boy. “Really. We have lots of questions too. But we wouldn’t say no to a glass of that. It looks amazing. What is it?”
“We make this ourselves. It is like the brandy but from plums.”
“Sounds delicious,” Zeke says.
Paula snatches the bottle from Matei and fills a small shot glass for Zeke with a shy smile. Matei snatches it back and fills mine. They bicker a little—something that makes Zeke’s lips twitch, and Orlov smacks Matei on the head. What he says draws another blush from Matei’s face as he darts a horrified glance at me. I’ll have to ask Zeke about it later.
Through all this, the smells from the kitchen are slowly crawling into my lungs and filling me with delicious longing. Not long after I sip the potent but delicious brandy, I’m off my seat and into the kitchen.
It’s intoxicating inside the small space. Herbs of all kinds hang from the ceiling. Lavender, dill, parsley. Little pots of fresh flowers sit by the painted windowsill. A mortar and pestle is filled with ground seeds. The raw simplicity of the place reminds me of the abbey. The nuns there use as much as they can from the walled garden.
“Can I help?” I ask Claudia.
She wipes her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand and darts an annoyed glance at her daughter, who is enthralled with Zeke.
