Father Norman leaned against the wooden table, his sharp eyes fixed on the radio as the results of the vote unfolded. The crackling voice of the announcer barely held his attention—his mind was already running ahead, deeper into the implications of it all.

A knock at the door barely registered, and he only turned when Daniel, the chief sacristan, stepped inside.

"Who won?" Daniel asked.

Father Norman pushed himself off the table and began pacing the room. His hands were clasped behind his back, his brows furrowed. "Regardless of the results," he muttered, "she will remain a prisoner."

Daniel frowned. "Who?"

The priest ignored him, lost in thought. He exhaled, shaking his head. "Human desires and intentions," he mused, "have their own subtle ways. They always find a way to justify themselves. Desire has a mind of its own."

Daniel blinked. "Father, are you—"

"You see, Daniel," the priest interrupted, now turning toward him with an intensity that made the younger man shift uncomfortably. "Every day, I see her wishes battling and winning over reason."

Daniel's confusion deepened. "Whose wishes? What are you—?"

But Father Norman wasn't listening. He clasped his hands tightly in front of him, his gaze drifting upward. "God," he murmured, as if pleading for divine insight. "There has to be a way to make sure she can actually become a nun."

Daniel stared at him. "Father Norman—"

Then, suddenly, the priest's eyes brightened. A thought struck him like lightning, and a slow, almost triumphant smile spread across his face.

"Of course," he breathed. "Why didn't I think of this before?"

Daniel took a hesitant step back. "Think of what before?"

Father Norman turned to him, his expression almost gleeful.

"This will save her," he said, excitement creeping into his voice. "For sure."

Daniel sighed, rubbing the back of his head in frustration. "Father, please—what are you talking about?"

Father Norman's fingers twitched. He lifted his hand sharply, as if swatting away an invisible nuisance. "Don't confuse me, Daniel," he snapped. "Close your mouth and don't test my patience."

Daniel shrank back, chastised. "I just want to understand," he mumbled.

"Then be silent."

The sacristan scratched his head, exhaling heavily. "I never know when you're talking to me," he muttered. "And then you complain when I don't respond."

Father Norman ignored him and walked to his desk, gesturing vaguely. "Fetch my notebook. I need to make a call."

Daniel hesitated, still looking like he had more to say.

"Now, Daniel," the priest snapped.

Daniel scowled but turned towards the door. Just as he reached it, Father Norman called after him, his voice suddenly calm, almost pleased.

"And while you're at it," he added, "pack my bag. I'm going to Vienna."

Daniel stopped in his tracks, twisting back to look at him in shock. "Vienna?"

Father Norman didn't even glance at him. His eyes were alight with something almost feverish as he resumed pacing the room.

Daniel lingered a moment longer, but when it became clear the priest wasn't going to explain himself, he sighed again and left to do as he was told.

Once alone, Father Norman let his thoughts flow freely, speaking softly to the air as he walked.

"We cannot lose Maria," he murmured. "The saintly girl from Tyrol. The selfless one, the kind one—the one who treats everyone with compassion, no matter their sins."

He stopped and chuckled to himself, a self-satisfied smile curling at his lips.

"And it was I who made her so," he whispered.

And soon, he would make sure she remained exactly that.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The morning light streamed through the small window of Maria's cell, casting soft patterns on the stone floor. She sat by the window, chin resting on her knees, her thoughts tangled in the events of yesterday.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake him from her mind.

She sighed, rubbing her arms as if trying to soothe something deeper than a chill.

"I feel like I can't escape him," she murmured to herself.

Her voice was quiet, but the words hung in the still air.

She turned her head, gazing at the wooden cross above the head of her bed. Her first miracle. That's what she had called him.

Maria stood, moving toward the cross. Her fingers traced the worn edges of the wood as she closed her eyes, speaking softly.

"I was too eager," she admitted, bowing her should have been patient to see the results of her efforts to soften the hardened heart of the Stuwerviertel's Captain. Now that it was coming to fruition...

She lifted her gaze, staring at the cross as though it would answer her. And then, a whisper of a smile touched her lips.

"Yesterday, when we bumped into each other..." she exhaled, letting herself relive that fleeting moment.

The way he had looked at her.

The way she had looked at him.

Maria touched her chest, feeling the quickened beat of her heart.

"I felt something," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "A different spark."

She wasn't imagining it. She knew what she had seen in his eyes.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Georg sat silently at his desk, his fingers tracing absent patterns over the small wooden box in front of him. He rubbed his thumb over its surface as though the motion itself could summon the past.

Inside the box, whenever it wasn't in his pocket, should've lay the lost rosary.

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. His mind kept circling back to yesterday—to her. That brief moment when their eyes met, when time seemed to slow.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Straightening, he cleared his throat. "Come in."

The door opened, and Marie stepped in.

She was dressed modestly, as she always was during the day, her work as a seamstress requiring practicality. But there was a tightness to her expression, a worry she didn't bother to hide.

"I was worried," she said, stepping forward. "I kept thinking... what would happen to us if we had to move? Stuwerviertel is our only home."

Georg gave her a reassuring smile. "You don't have to worry about that anymore." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "The council rejected the project. We've won." Some of the tension eased from her shoulders.

But Georg wasn't finished. Curiosity tugged at him, something he hadn't been able to shake since yesterday.

He leaned forward slightly. "Tell me," he asked, "what do you think happened to Sister Maria?"

At the mention of her name, Marie turned to him with a knowing look flashing in her eyes. But she said nothing.

Georg smirked to himself and stood, making his way to the tea trolley where his morning coffee awaited. He casually called out, "Marie de Sachelles," he gave her a devilish grin. "I would pay to see the face of that nun," he mused. "How did she react, now that her group lost the vote?"

Georg poured himself a cup of coffee, the rich aroma filling the office. As he stirred in a bit of sugar, Marie's voice cut through the quiet.

"Why did you call her 'Sister'?" she asked, curiosity lacing her tone. "I've overheard you and Max talk about her a few times. I never knew what her name was until you mentioned it."

Georg's hand stilled for a fraction of a second.

Damn.

No one else besides Max knew about his personal history with Maria. To everyone else, she was just another nun from the Alliance, another woman who had stood against him in the council hall.

He recovered quickly, shrugging as he resumed stirring. "I don't know," he said smoothly. "Everyone calls her that, so now I do too."

Marie gave him a look that suggested she wasn't entirely convinced, but she let it go.

Georg took a slow sip of his coffee, leaning against the tea trolley. "I've been invited for an interview," he said, setting the cup down. "Max's friend wants to talk. After that, I'll drop by the convent."

Marie frowned. "The convent?"

"To schedule the mass I told you about."

Skepticism flickered across her face. "Are you really going to hold that mass?"

Georg smirked as he walked back to his desk, coffee in hand. "Why wouldn't I?" He sat down, stretching out his legs. "I said I'd do it." His grin widened. "And I'll make sure that she has to sit through it." He took a sip, enjoying the thought.

Georg leaned back in his chair, twirling his coffee cup absently between his fingers. A knowing smirk played on his lips. "Sister Maria wouldn't have been fitting as a nun," he mused, his voice dripping with amusement.

Marie raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"She puts on airs, that one," he continued, tilting his head slightly as if recalling the scene. "Yesterday, there was only one chair left in the assembly—right next to mine."

Marie blinked. "And?"

"And she saw me sitting there and still chose to stand for the whole session."

Marie shrugged, unimpressed. "Better than the two of you fighting."

Georg grimaced. "No," he disagreed, setting his coffee down with a soft clink. "I would've stood up right away if she sat next to me." He scoffed. "I would've been the one standing the whole damn session."

He shook his head, mocking himself. "But I'm no saint," he added with a dry chuckle. "God knows I don't have to set an example for anyone."

Marie watched him, arms crossed. "Then what's your point?"

Georg's smirk faded into something more thoughtful. He picked up his cup again, rolling it in his palm. "If Maria were a saint," he said, his voice quieter, "she would face me head-on."

He lifted the cup to his lips.

"And sit next to me."

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Maria sat on a worn wooden bench in the convent gardens, the cool morning air rustling the leaves around her. This part of the garden was secluded, tucked away from the usual paths the other nuns took during their daily routines. It was quiet—peaceful.

In her hands, she held a small woolen bag.

She hesitated for a moment before carefully pulling it open, revealing the rosary inside.

His rosary.

Her rosary?

Maria sighed. She ran her fingers lightly over the bag's fabric. Why hadn't she still returned it to him?

A voice suddenly broke through the silence.

Maria jolted and swiftly hid the bag in the pocket of her habit. She turned her head, quickly composing herself.

Max approached with an easy stride, hands tucked into his coat pockets, as if he had all the time in the world. Maria had grown used to his visits. Ever since that night in Stuwerviertel, he had occasionally come to the convent, always with some casual remark, always carrying an air of quiet observation.

Maria knew Max was close to Georg, though she wasn't entirely sure what their relationship was. Friends? Business partners?

What she did know, however, was that Max seemed to know everything about Georg. Whenever she asked about him—whether she meant to or not—Max always had an answer. Yet despite his ties to Georg, Maria found something unexpected in Max. An ally.

Maria exhaled, running a hand along the folds of her habit. She had almost forgotten why she had called Max here in the first place.

Max, standing before her with his usual air of nonchalance, crossed his arms. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Maria replied too quickly.

Max frowned. "Nothing?" He scoffed, glancing around the empty garden. "You asked me to rush here, Maria. I thought something serious happened."

Maria paced a little, unsure of how to put her thoughts into words. She hesitated, her gaze flickering between the ground and the man in front of her.

Max stepped closer. "How are you?"

The question made her stop in her tracks.

Maria looked at him, her throat tightening. How was she? She wasn't sure she even knew the answer herself.

Max shook his head, giving her a knowing look. "I tried to warn you, you know." His voice was softer now. "Back when you joined the Alliance."

Maria clenched her jaw and turned away.

"I had hoped you were on the right side of the fight," Max continued.

Maria let out a slow breath, then nodded. "So did I."

She stepped away and sank onto the bench, the weight of her choices pressing down on her.

Max followed, though he left space between them, respecting the distance she seemed to need. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

"The public's siding with Herr Böhm now," he said after a moment. "Deep down, nobody really wanted the Hyssop Homes project."

Maria remained silent, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

Max sighed and glanced at her. "You're worried about how last night might affect you." he said, crossing his arms. "I am right, aren't I?"

Maria didn't respond, but she didn't need to.

Max shifted his weight, his voice turning more serious. "The things I've been hearing aren't too positive."

At that, Maria suddenly turned to him, her eyes sharp with something she couldn't quite name. "Was Georg close to the woman in the assembly last night?"

Max's brows lifted slightly, as if caught off guard. But there was something else in his expression—something knowing. Something amused.

He had seen it too.

Still, the opposite came from his mouth. "I don't know. Why'd you ask?"

Maria's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she looked away. "There's no reason," she said quickly, almost too quickly.

Max tilted his head, studying her. He wasn't stupid. He could see how much recent events had been weighing on her, how tangled she was in her thoughts.

With a shrug, he offered simply, "Maybe try focusing on yourself, even just this once."

Maria blinked, turning to him again.

"Just ignore the Captain," Max continued, although a little bit hesitant. "If that would help."

Maria exhaled softly, barely a nod, but a nod nonetheless.

Another moment of silence settled between them, the weight of unspoken thoughts stretching the pause longer than it should.

Then, Maria broke it. "Was there something between Georg and that woman?"

Max raised a brow, then chuckled. "I wish there was."

Maria felt something tighten in her chest at his response, but she kept her face neutral.

Max, however, was watching her closely now, his curiosity deepening. "Why do you want to know?" he asked, more insistent this time.

Maria swallowed, feeling as though she had walked into a corner with no escape. Max had no idea about her past with Georg—or at least she hoped Georg hadn't told him.

The nuns in Salzburg had been right. She wasn't an asset to the abbey. Her feelings still got the best of her. She was impatient, too eager. She thought she had learned her lesson, but she kept failing herself.

Shaking her head, she quickly said, "There's no reason."

Max watched her for a moment longer, as if considering whether to push further. But instead, he let it go. "How's your choir?" he asked instead, shifting the conversation.

Maria took the lifeline without hesitation, and they spoke of other things.

A long while later, after Max had left the convent, Maria walked to her room in quiet contemplation.

She thought of his words—Focus on yourself.

She sighed as she reached her small chamber, standing near the window. "He's right," she murmured.

Then, with a frown, she whispered to herself, "Why do we have such difficulty erasing people from our hearts?"

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Maria strolled along the convent's stone pathways, her Bible open in her hands. The words blurred before her eyes—her thoughts kept straying elsewhere, refusing to settle.

Then, a voice rang out across the courtyard.

"Sister Maria!"

Maria stiffened. The convent was a place of silence, of quiet reflection, yet the voice carried without a care. She turned toward the sound.

At the far end of the building stood Frau Lulu, her posture urgent, her voice loud enough to echo through the halls. Several of the sisters nearby cast wary glances, but no one said a word.

Maria barely had time to react before the woman marched forward, her determination unwavering.

"I've been looking for you since the vote ended at the council," Frau Lulu announced, her tone sharp with frustration. "We should've made our voices heard!"

Maria opened her mouth to respond, but the older woman cut her off before she could utter a syllable. "I was horrified at the display of corruption in the council. Horrified! Do you know what this means? The people have lost their decency, Sister."

Maria pressed the Bible to her chest, steadying herself. She had seen the vote firsthand. She had watched as men weighed their choices not on principle, but on whispers, bribes, and unseen pressures.

But there was more to Frau Lulu's anger—something deeper, something unresolved.

Maria took a slow breath. She knew this conversation was far from over.

"Did you know," Frau Lulu pressed, eyes burning with indignation, "that they put that degenerate on the radio today?"

Maria inhaled sharply. She didn't need to ask who he was. She knew.

"Did he speak?" she asked quietly.

"Of course!" Frau Lulu threw up her hands, exasperated. "They're treating him like a celebrity—letting him speak to all of Vienna, as if he's some kind of respectable man."

Maria bit her lip. It wasn't surprising. Georg had always known how to command attention. She could picture him, leaning lazily into the microphone, his voice smooth and full of that effortless charm.

Frau Lulu crossed her arms. "But I've had a great idea!"

Maria straightened. That tone always meant trouble.

"We'll organize a protest," Frau Lulu declared, eyes gleaming with conviction. "A march—with prayer beads. We'll show the city that we stand against filth like him!"

Maria hesitated. Something inside her twisted uncomfortably.

Carefully, she answered, "I'd prefer not to be involved in the second phase of the campaign."

Frau Lulu gasped. "Maria, what are you saying? Are you leaving us?"

Maria shook her head quickly. "No, it's not that. I've been thinking of different ways to help the people of Stuwerviertel."

"Different ways?" Frau Lulu narrowed her eyes.

Maria took a steady breath. "I've had enough of being used as a symbol in an aggressive campaign."

Frau Lulu opened her mouth to argue, but Maria continued, firm but calm.

"I'm not giving up. I'm simply taking a different path," she said. "Our goals remain the same, but I believe there's another way to reach them."

Frau Lulu stared at her, resistant, skeptical. But Maria had led the women for too long—her departure, even from just this campaign, would not be easily dismissed.

After a tense silence, Frau Lulu finally sighed. "Alright," she said, though her voice was hesitant.

Maria nodded in gratitude, though she knew this was far from the end of it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Father Norman stood in the quiet of Maria's small room, his gaze slowly sweeping across the space she called her own. Simple. Modest. Just as it should be.

He took a few steps forward, his fingers grazing the wooden desk, feeling the ridges and grooves of the worn surface. His eyes caught on a small, framed photograph propped against the wall.

It was a picture of Maria with a group of children—young, bright-eyed souls who once sat in her classroom back in Tyrol, before she chose the path of devotion.

A smile touched his lips as he picked it up. He remembered that time well. Maria had been full of energy, filled with love for the children she taught. He had seen it then—the goodness in her, the light. That was why he had approached her. Why he had encouraged her to serve God with her whole heart.

And she had. She had followed.

Setting the frame back down, his fingers absentmindedly traced the spines of the books stacked neatly beside it. Theology, scripture, studies on devotion. But then—something caught his eye.

Tucked away behind the books, almost as if it were hidden, was a small woolen bag.

Father Norman reached for it, his curiosity piqued. As he loosened the string and peered inside, his fingers brushed against something familiar—beads. A rosary.

His brows furrowed. Why would she hide something so sacred?

Then, it struck him.

The sinner's rosary.

She had told him about it. How she came to possess it. How she struggled to part with it.

He had assured her, back then, that she would know when she was ready. That she could dispose of it once she had finally freed herself from the hold it had on her.

But it had been too long. Not only had she kept it, she was hiding it.

Father Norman tightened his grip around the tiny bag, his expression darkening.

Maria was still bound to him.

The wooden door creaked as Maria stepped inside, her presence breaking the silence that had settled in the small room. Father Norman, his fingers still grazing the tiny woolen bag, swiftly tucked it back behind the books and turned to greet her.

"Maria," he said with a warm smile, clasping his hands together. "I was just about to pick up a book when you arrived."

Maria returned his smile, completely unaware of what he had just done. "Father Norman, I wasn't expecting you today," she said as she moved further into the room. "But I'm glad you came."

She adjusted her veil, the fabric slipping slightly over her forehead, and stood near the edge of her bed. "I've been meaning to tell you—I'll finally be able to spend more time with the choir. The Alliance took so much of my attention, and I fear I've neglected them."

Father Norman tilted his head, listening as she spoke, but his mind was elsewhere. His discovery—her secret—rested just within reach behind the stack of books.

Maria was mid-sentence, speaking with enthusiasm about her plans for the children, when Father Norman interrupted. His voice was calm but resolute.

"Before you worry about them, let me do something for you first."

She turned to him, puzzled.

The priest met her gaze. "I've found the solution to all your troubles."

Maria frowned slightly. "What do you mean?"

Father Norman took a step closer, his hands clasped behind his back. "I already have permission from the right people," he said. "You're going to Switzerland."

Maria's breath hitched. "Me?"

"Start packing," he said firmly. "You'll stay there for a month—long enough for me to arrange your transfer to any city far from Vienna."

Maria's fingers curled at her sides. "Transfer?" she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper.

The priest nodded. "I've already spoken to your superior. We leave for Tyrol today, and tomorrow, we'll be on our way to Switzerland."

Maria's lips parted, but no words came. "I... I need to let the choir know," she finally said, grasping at something—anything—to slow the rush of events.

Father Norman waved a dismissive hand. "Send a telegram," he said simply. Then he smiled, as if expecting her gratitude. "Isn't this the perfect answer? There, you'll recover in no time and forget everything that happened here," Father Norman said with finality.

Maria stood frozen, her breath unsteady. The priest wagged a finger at her, his voice firm but laced with a certain fondness. "No more campaigns. No more taking it upon yourself to defend someone else's project. That is the work of politicians, not a woman of God."

"But, Father—" Maria began, desperation creeping into her tone.

He cut her off with a sigh. "Think only of Christ," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "He should be the only one you serve."

Tears welled up in Maria's eyes. "I was becoming very close to seeing the change in Stuwerviertel," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Father Norman only shrugged. "Then perform a change in Switzerland instead."

Maria shook her head, her voice strained. "I took the wrong path," she murmured, as if speaking to herself as much as to him. "I was too hasty... too eager. He—" She paused, her gaze distant as if lost in thought. "He's angry with me, but I feel that he understands what I'm saying, even though he won't admit it."

Father Norman's eyes narrowed at her admission. "You feel it?" he asked, his tone hardening, his brow furrowing.

Maria's eyes flickered up to meet his, her expression filled with a blend of hope and doubt. "Yes," she said, almost eagerly, as though her conviction were the answer to an unspoken question. "I do. Even when he insults me, when his words are harsh... it's like something in his eyes disagrees with what he's saying. I can see it there."

The priest's jaw tightened. The words she spoke unsettled him. "It's more serious than I thought," the priest mused, his voice quiet yet heavy with concern.

"He's yielding," Maria insisted to the priest. "I am managing to touch his heart."

"Sit down, child." His tone was firm, though not unkind. She obeyed, lowering herself into the chair as he continued, "Temptations cloud your sense of proportion. If you truly aspire to be a nun, you must stay away from them."

Maria's brow furrowed, her fingers tightening around the folds of her habit. "I don't know why you're saying this, Father," she murmured.

Father Norman exhaled, then slowly reached out, tapping his fingers lightly on the stack of books between them. The subtle movement revealed the rosary hidden beneath.

"Don't you?" His voice was gentle but insistent, watching her closely, searching for the truth in her expression.

Maria kept her head bowed, unwilling—perhaps unable—to answer. Her head snapped up, her eyes shining with conviction. "I love Christ very much," she declared, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Father Norman, however, did not soften. He met her gaze with something almost like pity. "But you love Him poorly."

Maria's breath caught in her throat.

"When we love," the priest continued, his voice firm, measured, "we must love rightly, love well, love correctly." He gestured around them, as if the walls of Vienna itself were closing in. "Here, in this city, you will love Christ poorly. But if you go to Switzerland, you will save yourself."

Maria stared at him, a quiet plea in her expression.

"That devil wants you to stay in Vienna," he whispered, stepping closer, his eyes searching hers. "Can't you see it?"

"Does it have to be now?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Father Norman did not hesitate. "It's now or never."

Maria sat frozen, her mind racing, but the priest had already stepped away. His decision had been made.

"Pack your bags," he said, his tone final. Then, without another word, he turned and left the room, the door closing behind him with quiet finality.