Katharina.
Even here, in this sacred space, she haunted me. The way morning light had caught her golden hair during our lesson. The flutter of her pulse beneath my thumb when I dared to touch her wrist. The way her lips shaped Latin words, turning something holy into something my mind twisted toward the obscene.
“Forgive me,” I whispered to the crucifix above the altar, but I didn’t know what I was asking forgiveness for. For wanting her? For teaching her so I’d have an excuse to sit close enough to breathe her in? For the dreams that woke me gasping, my body betraying every vow I’d made? Man is flawed, drawn to sin. And I was a man to my very core.
Two years ago, I fled to Bamberg after my hometown was burned by Swedish soldiers. The Prince-Bishop assigned me to this small parish at the edge of his city. At first there had been unrest amongst the other priests, worried that a new face might upset the delicate house of cards built by their posturing around the Prince-Bishop. That ceased quickly when they realized I had no desire for their machinations—only to serve my parish and deliver the Lord’s word as I worked through my grief.
They left me to my own devices. Well, all except one. VicarGeneral Friedrich Förner continued to monitor my sermons long after it was prudent. I soon realized why.
“Amongst your flock, the Devil waits in disguise, Father,” he told me, an arm around my shoulders. Still new to this place, I held my tongue, which he took as encouragement.
He walked me to a hill overlooking the Convent of Our Lady of Mercy. In the garden behind the stone building, a young woman toiled on her hands and knees, planting.
“You see her? Katharina Müller. Her mother was a witch burned nearly a decade ago. She escaped justice then, but the Devil has marked her—there is no doubt about that. These nuns have tried to hide her away, have the people forget what she is. But I have not forgotten.” The look in his eye was so far from holy, I knew the truth of his intentions then, but foolishly held my tongue.
Friedrich squeezed my shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, won’t you? The Bishop rewards those who root out evil in our city.”
He left me then, and I observed her. She couldn’t have been much over twenty, meaning she would have been just a child when her mother burned. What sort of man seeks to condemn a child? No one was beyond redemption—certainly not someone as young and full of life as she was.I will watch her and guide her. That is my duty as her priest.Oh Father in Heaven, let me guide this lost dove down a path of righteousness.
I twisted my rosary through my fingers as I made this vow. As I watched her, she turned her head left and right as if checking for observers. She did not see me at such a distance and thought herself alone. I should have looked away then, should have given her the privacy she sought, but something kept my eyes on her. Was it the Vicar’s warning, or something deeper—a calling from the Lord himself to watch over her?
Either way, my heart fluttered as she loosened the bonnet from her hair, tossing it aside so waves of golden curls tumbled down her back. She shook her head and they caught the morninglight, and I knew then this was no creature marked by the Devil, but an angel given earthly form.
I should have known in that moment that my interest in her was far more than priestly. I found myself anticipating her weekly confession far more than I should have. The wood of the kneeler creaked as she settled onto it each Thursday afternoon, and I would close my eyes behind the screen, letting her voice wash over me.
But what she gave me was never the truth.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I was uncharitable in my thoughts toward Mother Agnes. I neglected my evening prayers twice this week. I felt envy when I saw the baker’s wife with her new dress.”
Small sins. Safe sins. The kind any novice might confess to fill the silence. I’d heard a thousand such confessions, and I knew theshape of a soul holding back.
She spoke to me through a veil thicker than the wooden screen between us. Each word was carefully chosen, stripped of anything that might reveal who she truly was. I would offer her penance—three Hail Marys, an Our Father—and she would thank me and leave, and I’d sit alone in the darkness of the confessional, wondering what storms raged behind those calm, recited words.
What had made her so careful? What had taught her that even the sacrament of confession was not safe? I was still new to this city then, didn’t know that caution was survival for a woman who lived outside the prescribed path of wife and mother.
I found myself wanting to reach through the screen, to take her hands in mine and say,Tell me. Tell me what burdens you. I will not betray you. I swear before God, I will not betray you.
But I did not. I could not. The screen existed for a reason, and so did her silence.
Still, I began to look for other ways. Small kindnesses. A warmer greeting when we passed in the cloister, questions about her garden that invited longer answers. I told myself I was ministering to a wounded soul, coaxing a frightened lamb back to the shepherd’s arms.
I did not yet admit that I simply wanted her to look at me.
After weeks of nothing, I knew I needed more. I found her after Sunday Mass, sitting near the back, eyes downcast, trying to become invisible in the shadows of the pillars. But I saw her—I would always see her now. When the congregation dispersed, I approached slowly, cautiously.
“Katharina,” I murmured. “I was wondering if I might ask you something?”
She looked up then, and her eyes—blue with flecks of green, like the herbs in her garden—held such wariness it broke my heart. “Yes, Father?”
“I understand you help with the convent’s work. The sisters speak well of your dedication.”
A lie, one I would atone for later. The sisters didn’t speak of her at all, except perhaps Sister Margareta. But I saw how her shoulders relaxed slightly at the kindness.
I was not a holy man. I knew that then. If I had been, I would have kept my distance. I would have heeded the rot and corruption growing in my heart at the soft glow of her cheeks and the sharpness in her eyes.
Instead, I said, “I wonder if you might assist me with organizing the church’s texts. I could teach you to read the scriptures properly in return.”
The hunger that flashed across her face, the pure yearning for knowledge, made my decision for me. This was no creature of the Devil. This was a mind in need of guidance. I had intended to teach her to read but was shocked to find she was already quite skilled in German. Perhaps that should have cautioned me—a literate woman, even amongst the nobility, was rare—but it became apparent quickly that she was brighter than many of the men I’d studied amongst, and what had begun as simple Bible study transformed into lessons in Latin and theology. Every morning I rose looking forward to our discussions, towatching her finally bloom into life, no longer hiding in the shadows.
