“It's okay. That smell, it's just Teodor." She set down a sack of red potatoes and patted her dog's head. "Look what he got me."

Treia's attention turned to her hand, where the juice of fresh blackberries stained a brown paper bundle. He caught the first offering from her fingertips and chased the second across the stone pathway.

"And all it cost me was a kiss," Gina whispered.

A kiss that had tasted like goat's milk on Teo's lips, like cut grass. Not unpleasant. Not at all. The flutters in her tummy had told her she was becoming an adult, and it was true that she would be turning twelve in a matter of hours. A woman, by Jewish standards.

“Gina,” her mother called from inside. “Bring the sack here. How am I to make ciorba without potatoes?”

“Sorry, Mamica.”

“Why the delay? Have you grown too lazy to turn the winch?”

Gina pushed the bundle into the pocket of her handmade dress, then carried her burden into the kitchen area where Nicoleta was bent over the oven. Scents of parsley and celery root laced the air. Lunch would be stuffed cabbage and vegetable soup.

“Set it down.”

She obeyed. Took a moment to scratch at a bite below her ear.

“I can’t do it all," her mother said. "You must shoulder your responsibilities, you know this?”

“Da, Mamica.”

“You’d think you were from Bucharest or Timisoara, a regular city girl, spoiled and soft.” Her mother dumped potatoes beside a mound of sliced carrots. “Take a look at me. I travel once a week to study at the university, but you certainly don’t see me neglecting my duties. Time to grow up, you hear?”

The words stung. Though she admired her mother's commitment to education, that grasping for knowledge seemed to have weakened her hold on tenderness.

Locked in this young girl's body, Gina was ready to break free, to pursue her own dreams. She loved the village children, adored their innocent, grubby faces, and her heart yearned to be of some use in an orphange.

Not that she had much to offer.

But weren’t there constant cries for workers at the centers--in nearby Arad, in Cluj, even as far away as Constanta on the Black Sea? Stories circulated about urine-soaked mattresses in steel cribs, babies with bedsores, and abuses best left unnamed.

Gina scratched again at her neck.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.”

Nicoleta yanked her hand away. “A mosquito bite? I told you to use the ointment before going out.”

“It’s fine.”

When her mother pulled at her dress collar to sniff her skin, Gina giggled at the touch. She pulled away, and her mother’s palm came flying across her cheek.

“It’s no laughing matter, Regina. We’re susceptible. Do you wish to die, babbling incoherently while some blood disorder turns your brains to mush? As God’s servants we must be ever vigilant, or we'll be overtaken by evil.”

“It was a mistake. I'm sorry.”

“Sometimes I wonder. You're my angel, yes, but a silly girl.”

"You know, tomorrow I'm turning--"

"It means nothing. Who has time for such frivolity? Making yourself useful will take you much further in life. Are you listening? There. If it's a gift you're after, I've just given you one."

Gina thought of goat's milk and said nothing.

“Now tell me," Nicoleta pressed. "Did you kill the creature? That’s the only way to avoid the disorder. It robs the beast of its power over you.”

“The beast?”

“Stop your quivering. The mosquito, of course.”

"Didn't you tell me those were only wives' tales? The talk of gypsies and--"

"Honesty, child. Shush your mouth."

Gina had witnessed this cycle before, from religious hysteria to cold logic to hysteria again. There were so many taboos in this home, things that went unsaid. Perhaps university was her mother's way of fighting off years of misplaced guilt and superstition.

“Now, quick,” Nicoleta said. “Get me the knife. You know which one.”

“Da.”

She moved from the kitchen to a small sweltering alcove, where tight window mesh kept out the bugs. Though most Cuvin residents went without such screens and looked upon this household with distrust, she didn't question her mother’s eccentricities. She could only hope one day to acquire some of her intelligence and good looks.

Gina's fingers pushed beneath Nicoleta's bed mat and found the black walnut box with the bronze clasp. The hinged box gave a melodic chime, spreading into a chessboard of blonde and ebony squares. On the underside, glistening chess pieces—piese de sah—waited in red-felt niches for their deployment.

The set's simple elegance sparked her creativity. Honor and warfare. The royal game. Even her name . . .

In Romanian, Regina meant “queen.”

“Child, I told you to be quick.”

Gina peeled back the felt and took hold of a concealed dagger. This wasn’t the first time she would go under its blade to be cleansed of infection. Tonight, as on previous occasions, she would have to find a way to hide the scar.

 "Gina.”

She hurried into the kitchen.

"Whatever took you so long? Did you find it?”

“Right here.” She surrendered the knife, then squatted on the floor and tilted her head. "I'm ready, Mamica. I promise not to flinch.”