“And you think these desires make you sinful?”
“Don’t they?”
“I think,” Heinrich said slowly, “that God gave you a mind and a heart and a body, and he does not give gifts he means to be refused.” A pause. “But perhaps I’m not the right priest to ask about the virtue of denial.”
A shiver ran up my spine. This was dangerous ground. We both knew it.
“I don’t know how to stop wanting,” I confessed. “And I don’t know if I want to stop. It burns inside me, and I cannot rid myself of it.”
At that, he chuckled. It wasn’t warm or amused, but dark and edged with a bitterness I had never heard.
“And that is the greatest sin of them all, isn’t it?”
My stomach sank, the dark shadows that followed me everywhere threatening to swallow me whole. I was wicked. I was damned. I had reached too far, wanted too much. I should have listened to my mother, to the Church. I should have stayed small, demure—invisible.
I pressed my forehead against the screen, close enough that I could almost see him. “Then give me penance, Father. Tell me how to be good.”
“What sort of penance would you have?”
“However you think I should be…corrected. Prayer hasn’t been enough. I need this want driven out of me.”
The silence stretched. I could hear my own heartbeat, too loud in the enclosed space. His breathing changed, quickening.
“Katharina.” My name, barely above a whisper. Notchild. Not anymore.
I waited, trembling, my whole body strung tight with anticipation, for him to tell me what punishment my wanting had earned.
Then I heard him move. The door of the confessional opened, the deep red glow of the late afternoon sun caught in the stained glass outlining him. He placed a hand on the wood behind my head, leaning down. The backs of his fingers traced along my cheek as he said, “Is that what you desire, my dove. To be punished for your sins? To transmute those lustful thoughts and desires through pain?” His voice was different than I’d ever heard it. Lower…and richer.
My heart raced, my pulse thumping beneath his fingers as they trailed lower. “Yes, please…”
Those long fingers continued, sliding to the nape of my neck, tugging my bonnet free and lacing through my hair. His gaze never left mine—those dark, downturned eyes that were sharper than I remembered, seeming to glow with the crimson light of the fading day. His grip tightened, and my head snapped back, a small gasp escaping me. He pressed his lips to my ear, his voice rough with restraint.
“The saints suffered exquisitely for their faith. Theyburnedwith devotion. Tell me, when you pray, does it feel like fire in your belly? Does it consume you? Because surrender shouldhurtbefore it grants you grace.”
“Yes, Father.” The same flames burned in me now, licking over my skin as every hair rose, desperate for his admonishment.
He released my hair, a shiver traveling down my spine, his fingers following it until he gripped my hands.
My rosary hung heavy between my trembling fingers, each bead worn smooth by years of prayer.
Heinrich observed, his much larger hand encompassing mine. “Are you afraid, Katharina?”
“No.” It came out a whimper.
“Lies in the confessional.” He clicked his tongue. “Another sin to add to your collection.”
His fingers encircled my wrists, his touch searing even through the late spring chill that permeated the stone church.
“Do you know what the blessed martyrs understood that we’ve forgotten?” He began winding the rosary around my wrists, the wooden beads pressing into my skin. “They knew that flesh must be abused to free the spirit. That pain and pleasure are both prayers in different languages to the same God.”
The beads bit deeper with each loop, the silver crucifix dangling between my bound hands like a pendulum. This was not the Heinrich I knew, whose hands were soft and hesitant. This Heinrich moved with a viciousness I didn’t recognize, each twist of the rosary calculated to press against the delicate bones of my wrists.
His breath was hot against my throat, and I could smell something different on him. Beneath the familiar scent of incense and old books was a dark omen—brimstone.
“You dream of fire because youarefire, Katharina,” he murmured, his lips grazing my ear. “I’ve watched you pretend to be the quiet ash they crave for years. Watched you hide your nature behind prayers and penance. But I know what you really are.”
The rosary tightened another degree, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. The church was empty at this hour—the last penitent had shuffled home—but still, the walls had ears in Bamberg.
