My gaze lingered on my lap, my fingers still opening and closing slowly. I had thought on it often. The Bishop’s sister still lived because of my mother. She slept warm and fed in her large house while I slept in the damp cold of the convent. She lived each day under the protection of the Witch Bishop while I waited day and night for the Schergen’s knock on my door. But it was what I deserved.You prayed for this.
“‘Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone—isn’t that what you taught me?”
“That’s scripture,” Heinrich said gently. “I asked what you feel.”
I kept my eyes on my lap. “I try to forgive. Every day I try. SometimesI think I succeed, and then I see her in the market, buying silk while children beg for bread, and the rage returns.” I pressed my palms against my eyes. “You’re so patient, Heinrich. So kind to everyone, even those who deserve nothing but contempt. I wish I could be more like you.”
“No.” The word came out sharp enough that my gaze shot up. Heinrich had shifted closer, his brown eyes intense. “Never wish that.”
“But—”
“You should never be anyone but yourself, Katharina.” His voice held a fierceness I’d rarely heard. “God created you perfectly.”
“You’re the only one who thinks that,” I whispered, my throat tight.
“Because they do not see you as I do.” He reached out, his fingers ghosting along my jaw without quite touching. “They do not see the kindness you cannot stop, no matter the danger. Just like your mother.”
Just like your mother.Did Heinrich suspect the work I did? The thought should have terrified me—light breaking through the shadows I used to conceal myself. It should have, but something in it felt like relief. I was so tired of hiding.
“The Bishop’s sister lives because of your mother’s skill,” he continued. “And she knows it. Her accusation wasn’t about faith—it was about guilt she couldn’t bear. Your mother held up a mirror to her helplessness, and she shattered it rather than look at her own reflection.”
A tear slipped down my cheek. “Sometimes I think my anger will consume me.”
“Wanting to change this world for the better is not a sin,” he said softly. “It’s natural to desire the power to help the helpless.”
I stared at him, startled. This wasn’t the theology he usually taught.
He seemed to catch himself, straightening. “But that’s a discussion for anotherday. For now…” He opened the Bible again, sliding it toward me. “Continue with Corinthians. Though remember”—his eyes held mine—“patience doesn’t mean accepting injustice.”
I bent back to the text, but I could feel him watching me, his gaze like a physical touch on my face, my throat, my hands as they turned the pages. When I stumbled over a particularly complex passage, he rose and came around the table to stand behind me, leaning over my shoulder to point at the words.
“Here,” he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. “The verb construction changes.”
I turned my head slightly and found his face impossibly close—close enough to see the shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his lips parted as he breathed. Our eyes met and held, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moved.
The chapel door creaked open, making us jerk apart. Brother Thomas entered, his pinched face suspicious as always. Heinrich stepped back smoothly, though not before I saw the flush high on his cheekbones.
“Father Heinrich,” Brother Thomas said, his eyes lingering on me with distaste, taking in my proximity to the priest. “The Bishop requests your presence at the cathedral.”
“Of course.” Heinrich’s expression shifted to neutral politeness, though his hands trembled slightly as he closed the Bible. “We’ll continue your lesson tomorrow, Frau Katharina.”
I moved to leave, but Heinrich caught my elbow as I passed—a brief touch, yet his thumb brushed the sensitive skin of my inner arm, and I knew it was deliberate.
“Be careful today,” he murmured, too low for Brother Thomas to hear. “The city grows more dangerous by the hour.”
Then he was gone, following Brother Thomas into the morning sun.
I stood alone, my skin still burning where he’d touched me, the Latin words lingering on my tongue.
Caritas patiens est.Love is patient.
I pressed my fingers to the place on my wrist where his thumb had traced circles, thinking of the way he’d said my name.
Patient love might be holy. But this—this ache between us, this careful dance of light touches and lingering looks—felt like something else entirely. Something that had no place in Paul’s letters or in a city where desire itself could be named witchcraft.
I gathered the books with shaking hands, knowing that tomorrow I would return, that we would sit too close and touch too often and pretend it meant nothing.
Love rejoiced not in iniquity, perhaps.
