“Forgive me,” I whispered again, but this time I wasn’t sure who I was asking—God, or Katharina, or perhaps my own soul for what I was about to do to it.
Because I would see her tomorrow, and the day after, and every day until the flames finally came for us both. I knew, somewhere in my deeply human heart, that I would eventually break.
And God help me, I would burn for her before I let them take her.
That was my true sacrilege—not the desire, but the certainty that, given the choice between my vows and her life, I would choose her.
Chapter 5
Heinrich
My congregation had already gathered for morning Mass—the faithful who still believed God might show mercy in a city that had forgotten the meaning of the word. Frau Weber sat in her usual place, third row, clutching her rosary as if she might float away without it. Old Hermann leaned heavily on his cane, his lips already moving in silent prayer. And in the back row, Katharina. For a breath our eyes met, and I watched hers crinkle at the corners, mine mirroring the expression.
I had just opened my missal when the great doors swung open with unnecessary force. Vicar General Friedrich Förner entered like a plague wind, his black cassock pristine despite the smoke that always hung over the city, his face etched in pious cruelty I’d come to despise. He’d been in Bamberg for thirty years, had served under three bishops, and despite his frail appearance, I knew he had grown fat on the fear of the masses.
I watched Katharina shrink in the back row, blanched almost completely white.
“Father Heinrich,” he said, his voice carrying through the church with authority. “His Grace has asked me to deliver this morning’s sermon.”
Myhands stilled on the altar cloth. “I wasn’t informed?—”
“Are you questioning the Bishop’s authority…again?” His smile was all yellowed teeth. “Surely not. Not after yesterday’s…conversation.”
So, the Bishop had sent his dog to bark at my flock. I stepped aside with a bow that was little more than a nod. “Of course, Vicar Förner.”
He took my place at the altar with obvious satisfaction, his ascetic fingers caressing the lectern almost obscenely. I moved to stand at the side, where I could watch both him and my congregation. Already, I could see the fear creeping into their faces. Förner’s sermons were legendary for their ability to make even the innocent feel damned.
“My children,” he began, though his tone held no warmth. “We live in dark times. The Devil walks amongst us, not as some distant threat, but here”—he slammed his hand on the lectern, making Frau Weber jump—“in our very midst!”
I forced my expression to remain neutral even as anger coiled in my stomach. These people needed comfort, not more terror. They needed Christ’s love, not these theatrics.
“He comes in familiar faces,” Förner continued, his voice rising. “In the neighbor who offers you bread, in the child who asks too many questions, in the maiden who knows too much and moves in the shadows.” His gaze found mine across the nave, satisfaction unmistakable. “The Devil is cunning. He wraps himself in kindness…and always, in beauty.”
My jaw clenched. He might as well have said Katharina’s name aloud.
“But we—we faithful servants of God—see through his deceptions!” Förner’s arms spread wide, his shadow stretching across the floor. “We know that corruption often wears the face of compassion. That those who claim to heal may in fact be spreading spiritual poison through our community.”
Poor Hermann was trembling now, and Frau Weber’s knuckles were white around her rosary. These people had alreadylost so much to the trials. They’d lost friends, family, even their very ability to trust. And here was Förner, pouring acid on their wounds and calling it holy water.
“The Devil,” Förner intoned, “requires only the smallest crack in our faith to enter. Just a moment of doubt, a single act of defiance against God’s natural order.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “And once he finds that crack, he pours himself in like smoke, filling every corner of the soul until the person you knew is gone, replaced by something wearing their face.”
Despite myself, a chill ran down my spine.
“We must be vigilant!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Report unusual behavior. Report those who seem too fortunate while others suffer. Report those who survive when they should perish.” Another glance at me. “The Prince-Bishop, in his divine wisdom, has given us the tools to root out this evil. We must not hesitate to use them.”
The sermon continued for another eternal thirty minutes, each word building paranoia, making neighbors suspect neighbors, transforming love into a liability. By the time he finished, my congregation looked hollow, drained, as if he’d fed on their hope like a parasite.
After the parishioners fled—one couldn’t call it anything else—Förner approached me, his angular face gleaming with sweat despite the morning chill.
“Your congregation seems…troubled,” he observed with false concern.
“They’re terrified,” I said flatly, abandoning pretense. “As you intended.”
“Fear of damnation leads to righteousness, Father Heinrich.” He adjusted his collar with skeletal fingers. “Though I wonder if everyone in your…care…understands this.”
“Speak plainly, Vicar.”
His smile widened. “The Müller girl. I’ve heard you have taken her under your wing.”
