It was madness. We charged no price—our work was charity, offered freely to any who needed it. But I could see in her eyes she was beyond any reason. She needed someone to blame for her son’s death. She needed someone to suffer so that her own suffering might have meaning.
And Sister Margareta had just offered herself up for sacrifice.
“I will come willingly,” she declared, her voice steady. “But allow me first to instruct Frau Katharina on the care of these patients. They should not suffer for my supposed crimes.”
The lead guard hesitated, then nodded curtly. I assumed he simply did not want to be responsible formoredeaths should the sick be left untended.
Sister Margareta turned to me and began speaking quickly, clearly, about which patients needed what care. She moved over our baskets of medicines as she spoke, pointing to the different vials, while her other hand grabbed something I didn’t quite see. I listened to her words, but her eyes said something else entirely.
Don’t be foolish.
“It’s lucky that I have been doing this so long—everything is in order.” Her voice was low, only for me. “I know my patients will be in good hands.”
“Margareta, don’t let?—”
“Youth, always in such a hurry.” She gave me a sad smile. “Don’t give up on them.”
“Yes, Sister,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
Then she did something that nearly broke me. She cupped my face in both her weatheredhands—tenderly, the way my mother used to when I was small and frightened of the dark. Her thumbs brushed away the hot tears trailing down my cheeks.
“Care for them well, child,” she murmured. “God sees all, even when men do not. They fear us because the work we do is powerful. It frees those they would keep under their thumb. They fear how brightly we would burn if they did not snuff us out. Don’t let them, Katharina.”
She dropped her hands and walked toward the guards with her head high, her steps unhurried. She moved as if she were processing to Mass rather than to the Drudenhaus. As if she had chosen this path herself, which perhaps, in a way, she had.
One man raised the iron manacles to snap around her fragile wrists.
“Is that really necessary, my boy? Do you think a nun as old as myself could outrun you?”
The Schergen exchanged glances, then lowered the chains, letting Margareta walk between them.
At the door, she paused and turned back.
“Frau Bauer,” she said softly, and her voice held no anger, no accusation, only gentle sorrow. “I forgive you. Your son is with God now. I pray that you find peace.”
Frau Bauer flinched as if she’d struck her across the face. I saw doubt flicker in her eyes. Then her jaw hardened again, and she turned away.
They led Sister Margareta out into the morning light, and the door swung shut behind them with a horrible finality.
I stood frozen in the center of the sick ward, my hands clenched so tight that my nails bit into my palms, carving crescent-moon wounds. Around me, the patients moaned and muttered, lost in their own private sufferings, unaware.
But all I could see was Sister Margareta’s straight back disappearing through the door.
Another innocent who would burn. Another mother, sister, healer reduced to ash while God watched in silence. And once again, I had stood by and done nothing.
You knew, the voice from my dream whispered.You have always known.
Yes. I had known. I had known since I watched my mother burn that the world was not just. I had known since Heinrich’s hands first touched mine that I was reaching for something forbidden. I had known since the first woman came to me weeping and desperate that the Church’s mercy was a lie told to keep us obedient.
I had known, and I had done nothing. I had kept my head down. I had prayed. I had hoped that if I was good enough, quiet enough, useful enough, the flames might pass me by.
And now Sister Margareta would burn, for a crime that should have been mine. I had allowed the Devil into me, into my very soul. Yet it was never I who paid the price.
Margareta.
My mother.
Heinrich.
