“Stop.” I pressed a finger to her lips. “Don’t even think it. Not because he doesn’t deserve it—God knows he does. But because theywould burn you for it. A young wife, her older husband dead? They’d call you a witch before his body was cold.”
I considered snatching the bottle back. She was too young, reckless and hurting. The vial glinted in her palm, a spark that could ignite everything.
She nodded, clutching the vial like a lifeline. “Three drops.”
My shoulders lowered. “And only when necessary. The body builds tolerance—use it too often and it stops working. Save it for when you need it most.”
“Why are you helping me like this?” she whispered.
“This is prevention,” I said firmly. “My mother used to say healing isn’t just about curing sickness—it’s about preventing suffering. Your suffering matters too, Greta. Your body is not his property, whatever the law says.”
“My grandmother told me witches steal men’s virility. Make them unable to perform their husbandly duties.”
I almost smiled. “Those aren’t witches. Those are wise women who know which herbs cause temporary…difficulties. Mint, when used in excess. Licorice root. Even too much ale can do it, though men never blame the drink.”
“Could you?—”
“That’s harder to hide. A man who can’t perform starts asking questions, starts looking for someone to blame. A man who sleeps deeply after his evening ale? That raises no suspicion.” I touched her cheek gently. “Choose your battles carefully. Survive first, fight second.Keep to the shadows.”
She nodded, tucking the supplies into her basket beneath a layer of fresh bread—her alibi for this early morning excursion. At the door, she paused.
“My mother told me once that your mother helped birth half the children in Bamberg—that she had gentle hands and knew songs to ease the pain.” She met my eyes. “The women at the market whisper about you. They say you’re cursed, that you’ll burn like your mother. But…” She drew a steadying breath. “I think you’re the closest thing to an angel this city has.”
I almost smiled. “Angels don’t teach young women to drug their husbands.”
“No,” she agreed. “They probably don’t. Which is why we need you more than angels.”
After she left, taking the back path through the orchard, I cleaned my tools and burned the leftover herbs. No evidence. Never any evidence. That was how I’d survived this long—that and the fact that fear of childbirth still outweighed fear of witchcraft in the desperate arithmetic of women’s lives.
Outside, the bells tolled the hour, low and solemn. Father Heinrich would be wondering where I was. I smoothed my skirt, my heart beginning to race at the thought of the hidden amusement in his eyes when I slipped in late. I was already grinning at the image.
But I thought back to the girl’s words. If I wasn’t an angel, didn’t that make me a devil?
Chapter 3
Katharina
The chapel was empty save for Father Heinrich, who knelt before the altar with his back to me, morning light streaming through the stained glass to paint his black cassock in shades of crimson and sapphire. His lips moved in silent prayer, and I hesitated at the threshold, unwilling to disturb his communion with God—or perhaps simply wanting to watch him a moment longer while he didn’t know I was there.
The truth was, men had never held much interest for me. I’d seen what their appetites wrought, and the consequences more acutely than almost anyone else in this city. I sometimes wished I were like a few of the sisters in the convent, who found more than warmth in the beds of their compatriots, but that hadn’t interested me either. I assumed I was simply destined for spinsterhood. That was…until Heinrich arrived and showed me everything a man should be: kind, intelligent…dark and handsome.
Two years he had been in Bamberg now, arriving just as the witch trials reached their fever pitch—a refugee priest from somewhere farther north, driven here by the war’s endless appetite for destruction. He’d taken over our small parish when Father Matthias had succumbed to the plague and, with it, inherited me.
He shifted, and I saw him wince—his knees troubled him, thoughhe’d never admit it. Too many hours on cold stone, too many nights spent praying for a city intent on devouring itself.
“You’re late,” he said without turning, and despite everything, I smiled. He always knew when I was there. “The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty.”
“Proverbs, I know. Sister Margareta needed tending,” I replied, moving into the chapel proper. “Her joints grow worse with the spring rains.” The lie came easily.
He rose carefully, one hand on the altar for support, and faced me. I noticed how the wool of his dark cassock stretched across his broad chest, as though it were slightly too small. Heinrich was barely thirty, but the last two years had aged him—silver threading the dark hair at his temples, lines carved deep around down-turned eyes that had seen too much suffering. A strong jaw paired well with the bump in his otherwise straight nose. Still, when he looked at me, something in his expression softened what could have been a harsh face, a warmth tightening my chest with dangerous hope.
His gaze lingered on my face, tracing the curve of my cheek where the morning light caught it, before dropping to his hands.
“And how is our good Sister?” He moved toward the door to his rectory, where he’d laid out our books—my Latin lessons, the excuse we both still used for these morning meetings.
“As stoic as ever.” I took my usual seat across from him. “She insists her suffering brings her closer to Christ.”
“Suffering.” Heinrich’s mouth twisted slightly as he sat, his movements careful. “This city has developed quite an appetite for it.”
