As Father Norman left, Maria remained seated at her desk, her hands clenched in her lap. The room felt heavy, as if the priest's words had settled into the very air, pressing down on her. Her gaze drifted toward the cross hanging above her bed, its presence both a comfort and a reminder of the path she had promised to take.
"No," she whispered, barely aware that she had spoken aloud. The weight in her chest grew heavier, constricting her breath. "I don't want to go. I won't go."
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Father Norman walked at the center of the chapel, worry furrowing his brow as one hand repeatedly jabbed the palm of the other. The weight of his thoughts bore down on him, Maria's defiance lingering in his mind. He had tried to guide her, to steer her away from the path that threatened her devotion, but something deep within her resisted.
The dim glow of candlelight flickered over the altar, casting elongated shadows across the chapel floor. He needed air. His thoughts were suffocating him. With a sigh, he turned toward the great wooden doors leading outside, hoping that the crisp evening air would provide him with clarity.
As he moved, a figure at the edge of his vision caught his attention. A man, dressed in dark clothing, knelt at one of the pews near the altar. His movements were practiced, reverent. He made the sign of the cross and then rose, stepping forward.
"Father," the man spoke, his voice steady yet inquisitive. "I wanted to schedule a Mass." The man hesitated for a brief moment, then asked, "Which day does Sister Maria help in the Mass?"
The priest's hands stilled. His fingers, which had been worrying at each other in restless agitation, now locked together. He studied the man for a brief moment, trying to decipher his intent.
"I don't know," Father Norman finally replied, his voice neutral. "It is not up to me if she wishes to assist."
He turned, prepared to take his leave, but the man's voice stopped him.
"Do you know when she usually comes in to help?"
There was an edge to the question—curiosity mixed with something else. Something deeper. Something that unsettled the priest.
"You may inquire with the nuns at the convent," Father Norman answered curtly, his patience waning. He needed solitude, a moment to gather his thoughts. This conversation was an unwelcome distraction.
He took a step forward, eager to escape, when the man spoke once more.
"Father, may I receive your blessing?"
Father Norman exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to maintain composure. Without truly looking at the man, he raised a hand in benediction.
"May God bless you," he intoned, the words automatic, nearly perfunctory.
He did not wait for a response. His steps quickened as he finally pushed through the heavy doors, out into the night, where the air was cool against his face.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Georg finally got his Mass scheduled, though it had not been without its complications. When he had inquired about having Maria present, he had been met with hesitation. Just as the priest from earlier had warned, they could not simply summon her at will. Still, it did not matter. The arrangements were made, and he had secured the time he needed. He started walking down the nave, his footsteps echoing through the quiet chapel, ready to leave.
Just as he was about to step outside, he saw the same priest from before entering the chapel. The man halted in the middle of the room, his gaze locking onto Georg with a strange intensity. There was something unsettling about the way the priest stared, as if seeing something—or someone—he had not expected.
Georg frowned slightly and approached him. "Is something wrong, Father?" he asked, studying the man's face.
The priest did not answer at first. His eyes remained fixed on Georg, his lips slightly parted, as if he had seen a ghost. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asked, "What is your name?"
Georg hesitated for a moment before answering, "Georg."
The priest's brow furrowed deeper. "Georg what?"
"Georg von Trapp. Why do you ask?"
There was a flicker of something in the priest's expression—recognition, perhaps. Georg sighed, already anticipating what might come next. He had seen it too many times before. He knew all too well how quickly religious men could turn their expressions of quiet contemplation into ones of judgment.
Steeling himself, he reached for the priest's hand, pressing his lips lightly against it out of habit and respect. "Your blessing, Father," he said, keeping his voice measured.
The priest barely reacted, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. As Georg stepped past him, the priest's voice came again, uncertain but firm.
"Captain?"
Something inside Georg tensed. He turned back, his defenses instinctively rising. He met the priest's gaze and nodded slowly. "Yes. It is I. Why?"
The priest continued to study him, and Georg could feel the weight of judgment lingering in the air. He had been through this before. Straightening his posture, he squared his shoulders and met the priest's gaze with quiet defiance. "Can I not have a Mass said for the sake of a soul?" he asked, his voice steady but laced with an unspoken challenge.
The priest asked calmly what Georg wanted with Maria.
Georg scoffed, shaking his head. "Nothing. I just want her to assist in the Mass. That's all."
The priest studied him, his gaze unwavering. Georg met it with a smirk, lifting a brow. "A Mass assisted by her must have more value, right?"
The priest's voice remained disturbingly even, his tone unreadable. "Don't you think you have too many sins?" He clasped his hands behind his back and took a measured step forward. "Do you think this would be enough?"
Georg's smirk vanished. He frowned at the priest, his jaw tightening. "I've been offended enough by everyone already. I've had enough of it."
He turned his back on the priest and strode toward the exit. But the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps behind him told him the priest was following.
"God is also keeping track of everything the world owes you, Captain," the priest said.
Georg kept walking.
The priest's voice sharpened. "Stop."
Something in the tone made Georg halt just before reaching the doors. He stood motionless as the priest stepped closer, his presence pressing upon him like a weight.
"Think about the salvation of your soul," the priest urged. "The hardships of this world have an end. But when you face judgment, the consequences will be eternal."
Georg inhaled deeply. "I may have made mistakes," he admitted, "but I'm doing my penance."
The priest's gaze remained unwavering as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of judgment. "Of all the sins you have committed, Captain, the one you are thinking of committing now is the most serious—the deadliest of all."
Georg's head snapped toward him, his expression darkening. "Which sin?" he demanded.
The priest took a step forward, his hands clasped before him as if in mourning. "Trying to corrupt a saint." His voice was quiet but sharp, like the keen edge of a blade. "You want the saint to fall into temptation—to turn her back on Christ, to look at you, and come to you."
Georg felt as if the words had struck his very core. He shook his head, refusing to accept them. "That's not true."
The priest's piercing eyes studied him. "Look at all the men and women you have taken from their rightful places. But this one—this one, you would take from Christ Himself. You are making Christ turn His back on you, Captain."
Georg's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Just because I want her to be in a Mass?" he asked, his voice rising with fury.
The priest merely watched him, his silence like a mirror reflecting Georg's guilt.
"Well, yes, I did," Georg admitted, his voice bitter. "Because Maria is proud. She thinks she's better than everyone else, more of a child of God than the rest of us. Just because everyone sees her as some heavenly messenger, she thinks she has the right to step on people."
The priest shook his head. "She does not want to step on anyone, Captain. She only wants to humiliate the devil."
Georg felt something snap inside him. "I am no devil!" he thundered.
He turned sharply on his heel, ready to storm out, but the priest's voice, calm yet commanding, stopped him in his tracks. "I know you are not."
Georg hesitated. Slowly, he turned back to face the priest, his breath heavy with anger and something else—something more uncertain.
"You don't even realize, Captain," the priest continued, stepping closer. "It is the devil who is controlling your thoughts and actions."
Georg's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The priest stood firm before Georg, his expression unwavering. The dim candlelight of the chapel flickered over them both, casting shadows across the marble floor. The priest's next words hung in the air, heavy and unshakable.
"Give up on Maria. Dedicate your love to another woman who isn't committed to God."
Georg froze. His breath caught, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The priest's voice had been calm, unyielding, but the words struck Georg like a whip. His mind reeled, echoing back the last sentence, over and over.
Love?
The word had slipped from his lips before he realized it. Softly spoken, almost to himself. Then, as though needing confirmation that he had heard correctly, he frowned and looked up, his eyes dark and searching. "What did you say?" he asked, voice strained.
The priest remained steady. "You know what I said," he replied. "You must abandon this path."
Georg shook his head. "You think that I—?"
Footsteps echoed softly against the chapel floor.
Georg stiffened. He and the priest turned toward the doorway, where Maria stood, a small Bible clasped in her hands. The dim candlelights flickered across her face, making her look almost ethereal—almost like the girl he once knew.
He swallowed hard and turned back to the priest, suddenly at a loss for words. Their conversation still hung heavy in the air, and now, with Maria's silent presence, it pressed against his chest even more.
He couldn't be in love with her.
He had loved her once—years ago, when they were young and foolish. But she had broken her promise. She had left without a word, without an explanation, without looking back. He had spent years convincing himself that whatever feelings he had for her had withered, that time had erased what was once between them.
And yet... he had held on to that damned rosary.
A relic of a past that had felt like a dream—brief, fleeting, and now, perhaps, not even real. It had been a reminder of the only time in his life that had felt pure, untouched by the darkness of the world. But was it truly a good thing anymore? After that night, when the Alliance had stormed into Stuwerviertel, disrupting everything he had built? After she had stood among them, still loyal to their cause?
Max had tried to tell him—tried to make him see another side of her. But how could he believe it? She had chosen them. Even now, despite everything, she still stood with them.
The Hyssop Homes project was finished. He had won. He should leave Maria alone.
And yet, he kept going back to her. Again and again. Whether it was to punish her, to prove her wrong, or simply to remind her of what she had done to him—he didn't know anymore.
But love? No. He couldn't love her. He shouldn't love her. Not again.
For God's sake, she's a nun.
His jaw clenched. He forced himself to look at her one last time, standing there in silence, waiting—perhaps for something neither of them could name.
Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the chapel, not wanting to hear another word.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maria's footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor as she followed Georg through the convent hall. His broad back was rigid, his pace quick and purposeful, as if he couldn't get out fast enough.
"Did you come looking for me?" she asked, her voice slightly breathless from catching up.
Georg didn't stop. He didn't even turn around. His answer came clipped, edged with something sharp beneath the surface.
"No."
The word was final, but before she could respond, he added, "I came to say that I don't want you assisting in my mass."
Maria stopped in her tracks, watching as he strode toward the exit, his presence just as overwhelming in his absence. She swallowed, trying to steady the rapid beating in her chest.
What was that all about?
She lingered in the empty hallway for a moment, then turned and walked back to the chapel. At the altar, Father Norman sat in prayer, his eyes closed.
Maria hesitated before stepping closer. "Father?"
The priest's eyes opened.
For a moment, she faltered, her nerves making her fidget with the hem of her sleeve. But she needed to know after overheard their conversation.
"Does Georg love me?"
Her words hung in the quiet air.
The priest didn't answer. Instead, he stood abruptly, taking her hands in his own. His grip was firm, eager, almost urgent.
"Did you pack your bags?" he asked.
Maria blinked. "What?"
He didn't wait for her response. He placed a steady hand on her elbow, guiding her through the chapel with a sudden, renewed energy. "You will love Switzerland," he said warmly, almost as if he were trying to distract her. "I envy you, seeing it for the first time."
Maria walked beside him, but her thoughts were still back in the hall, still replaying Georg's voice, his words.
The priest continued, speaking of the city, of the beauty of the Cathedral of Bern, Bundesplatz, and the Alstadt. "Do not worry about it being far from home," he reassured her, his voice light and encouraging. "I will be there for you anytime you need me, my child.."
Maria nodded absently, but her heart wasn't in the conversation, because even as the priest spoke of Switzerland and all the wonders she would soon see—her thoughts remained elsewhere.
On Georg.
And on the question the priest had refused to answer.