Maria paced her small room, her bare feet padding against the wooden floor. The candlelight flickered, casting her shadow against the walls, dancing alongside her restless movements. Her heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing with thoughts she had spent years trying to bury.
She turned to the wooden cross mounted above her bed, its presence looming over her like an unspoken judgment. She pressed her trembling fingers to her lips, whispering the words she had been too afraid to say before.
"I also want to marry him," she confessed, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as if trying to will away the weight of the truth she had just spoken.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Georg sat slouched in his chair, the sound of music outside doing little to lift his spirits. A half-empty glass of whiskey sat untouched on the desk before him, his fingers lazily tracing the rim. There's no more reason for him to keep his promise of sobriety.
How many times had he found himself like this? Sulking over a woman who refused to love him back? It was pathetic, really. He was the Captain, a man of power, of control. There were countless women in Vienna who would gladly throw themselves at his feet—beautiful, willing women who knew far more about pleasure than Maria ever could.
And yet, he wanted none of them.
He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, letting out a sharp breath. Outside his office, he could hear the excited laughter and singing of men and women. The club was already coming to life, the energy infectious even through the thick walls.
Right. The masquerade.
It was meant to be a grand celebration, a spectacle to mock the Alliance after their crushing defeat. He had put so much effort into ensuring everything was perfect—every detail meticulously planned to remind them who held the real power in Stuwerviertel.
But now, after leaving the convent, after everything with Maria... It didn't feel like a victory at all.
Lilian swept into his office in a flurry of movement, her mask still perched on her face and a frilly scarf wrapped elegantly around her neck. She twirled a black feathered fan in one hand, singing a playful tune as she danced toward him.
Georg barely lifted his head from where he sat, brooding as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.
Lilian's laughter rang through the room as she finally removed her mask, her amusement fading when she took a proper look at him. "God, Captain, you look absolutely wretched."
She placed a hand on her hip, tilting her head. "You do realize there's a party happening outside, yes? The biggest Stuwerviertel has seen yet, and you haven't even bothered to dress?"
Georg exhaled tiredly. "I barely have the energy to join."
Lilian clicked her tongue and smacked his arm lightly with the fan. "You must join," she insisted. "This party is meant to be a grand spectacle. What good is a victory celebration if the Captain himself doesn't attend?"
She reached forward, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead. "You're not ill, are you?"
Georg brushed her hand away with a sigh. "I'm fine."
She crouched beside him, searching his face with concern. "Then what is it?"
"Nothing," he muttered, clearly agitated. "I just want to be left alone."
Lilian let out a huff as she stood. "Suit yourself, but you're missing out."
Before he could reply, the door to his office burst open. A group of club employees spilled in, singing loudly, their voices bright and full of mischief. Confetti rained down around him as they danced, spinning and clapping, the entire room filling with an infectious energy.
Georg tried to fight it—tried to cling to the gloom weighing on his chest—but then, suddenly, he laughed. A genuine, full-bodied laugh, the kind he hadn't allowed himself in far too long.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Maria found herself standing in the alleyway across from his club once again, her heart hammering in her chest. The music thumped against the walls, spilling into the streets, a reminder of the grand and glorious party happening inside. She clenched her fists, willing herself to turn away, to walk in the opposite direction, but her feet refused to move.
She told herself she had only come here to see—to confirm, nothing more. Had Georg changed? Had he let go of his life of wickedness, after everything he had told her? Deep down, she already knew the answer. Of course he hadn't. Why would he, when she had rejected him? And yet... How could she love him if he remained this way? Loving a man like him would feel like a betrayal to God.
Her breath caught as she suddenly spotted him emerging from the club, the embodiment of temptation itself. He strode through the street in his pirate costume, a vision of reckless abandon. The dark leather coat fit him like a second skin, broad shoulders commanding attention even in the dim light. His loose white shirt lay open just enough to reveal the golden brown of his chest, the fabric teasing at the strength beneath. A crimson sash wrapped around his waist, swaying with each step, and the gleam of his cutlass flashed under the moonlight as he adjusted his belt.
Maria pressed her back against the wall, sucking in a sharp breath. Stop it. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head. She couldn't allow herself to think of him like this.
Still, she stole another glance.
And that was when she realized how close he had come.
Georg had stopped walking, his sharp gaze locking onto her. His piercing blue eyes burned through the shadows of the alleyway, freezing her in place.
Maria's breath hitched. She had been caught.
A frown marred Maria's face the moment his eyes found hers.
Georg, ever so confident, smiled at her and called her name as if he had been expecting her, as if she hadn't been standing in the shadows watching him. The way he looked at her, so openly pleased to see her, made her heart twist painfully.
But then she remembered where they were. She remembered what kind of man he had become.
Seeing him like this, in that ridiculous costume, in this life he refused to leave behind... she couldn't love him.
Maria's hands curled into fists. Her voice came out sharp, accusing. "You're a liar."
The warmth in his expression faltered. "Maria—"
"You claimed to love me," she cut him off, shaking her head. "But you don't."
Georg took a step closer, his voice soft, pleading. "I do."
She forced herself to look at him then, truly look at him—at the leather, the open shirt, the cutlass hanging from his belt. A part of her wanted to remember him as he once was, the boy who used to climb trees with her, not the man who stood before her now, indulging in excess and sin.
"Dressed like that? No, you don't," she whispered, her gaze dropping in disgust. Or maybe... maybe she just didn't want him to see how much he still affected her.
Georg followed her eyes, looking down at himself.
"What's wrong with my costume?" he asked, genuinely confused.
Maria swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep her gaze steady, to keep her thoughts pure. But her voice betrayed her, trembling as she asked, "Is everyone inside dressed like this? Barely covered?"
Georg chuckled, the sound low and amused, as he stepped closer. Not too close—just enough that she could feel the space between them shrink, just enough that she had nowhere to run but back into the cold, empty night.
"It's a party, liebste," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "A time for dress-ups and fun."
Maria grumbled, more to herself than to him, "I've never been to one." She frowned as soon as the words left her lips. Why had she said that?
Georg's grin widened, a teasing light in his eyes. "Never?"
She clenched her fists, willing herself not to flinch at the way he was looking at her.
"Why?" he asked, softer this time.
Maria opened her mouth, then hesitated. Why, indeed? The answer should have been simple—because she had never belonged in places like this, because she had always been meant for something else.
But instead, before she could stop herself, she whispered, "I don't know."
The silence between them stretched, heavy and thick, until Maria could no longer bear it. Her hands clenched at her sides as she demanded, "Why did you come to the convent and say all that to me?" Her voice trembled with anger—anger at him, anger at herself.
Georg didn't hesitate. "Because it's true," he said simply. "I was suffocating, Maria. I couldn't keep it inside anymore."
She let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she cast a scornful glance over him, from the tousled hair to the open collar of his shirt, down to the worn leather of his boots. "If it were true," she bit out, "you wouldn't be here, nearly naked. You wouldn't be indulging in this... revelry." Her voice caught on the last word, as if it pained her to even acknowledge the life he led.
Her words were meant to wound, but Georg's face remained unreadable.
She pressed on, unable to stop herself. "You don't seem upset," she accused. "I rejected you, and you—you just went back to this. Did I mean so little to you?"
Something in him shifted. His expression darkened, the amusement in his eyes vanishing as resentment took its place.
"Did you come here just to see if you won?" he asked, voice cold. "To see if you managed to exorcise the Captain?"
Maria sucked in a sharp breath, shame flashing across her face.
Georg inhaled deeply, his hands balling into fists. "Because I did it," he said, his voice rising. "I acted on what I felt. And I don't regret it."
Georg's voice dropped, rough and edged with frustration. "I'm weak, Maria, because I'm human."
His words struck like a lash.
"Unlike you," he continued, eyes burning into hers, "who acts like a saint." His tone turned bitter. "I make mistakes. I suffer. And like everyone else, I need something—someone—to hold on to so I can get back up. But you wouldn't understand that, would you?"
Maria clenched her fists, trying to push his words out of her mind, trying to ignore the painful twisting in her chest. She wouldn't let him see how much he affected her.
Instead, she lifted her chin and forced out, "Who have you been dancing with?"
Georg scoffed, shaking his head as if she were utterly ridiculous. "A lot of people," he said mockingly. "Not that it's any of your concern."
She refused to let him have the last word. "Then go back there," she challenged, her voice colder than she felt. "What are you waiting for?"
His jaw tightened. "Fine," he bellowed. "I will."
Maria inhaled deeply, steadying herself as the words left her lips like a final blow.
"Then go."
As Maria turned to leave, a firm but gentle grip closed around her hand.
"Wait," Georg said, his voice no longer sharp with frustration but soft—almost pleading.
Her breath hitched. Her gaze dropped to where his strong hands enclosed hers, rough yet careful, as if he feared she might slip away forever.
She shouldn't like this. She shouldn't want this.
But her heart betrayed her, racing at his touch.
Georg followed her gaze, his thumb barely brushing her skin before he seemed to catch himself. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he let go.
He swallowed hard, eyes dark with something unspoken. "Never mind," he murmured, shaking his head. "I'm fine."
But the lie in his voice was unmistakable.
He turned on his heel, heading back toward the club.
Maria's voice came before she could stop it. "Are you going back there?"
He hesitated, looking at her over his shoulder. "I don't know." His lips twitched in something like a bitter smile. "Goodbye, Maria."
And then he walked away, like none of this had happened.
Maria stood frozen, watching him disappear into the night. Her head bowed, uncertainty gnawing at her.
Had it been a mistake to come here?
Georg's voice startled her.
"Are you just going to stand there?"
She turned to see him, standing far enough away that he could have left without another word. Yet, he hadn't.
Maria quickly shook her head and forced her feet to move, putting more distance between them. But halfway through the alley, her steps faltered.
Why? Why did she feel the need to turn around?
She did. And there he was—still watching her.
Her heart clenched. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Georg's lips parted, but after a pause, he simply shook his head. "Nothing," he murmured.
Then, finally, he turned and walked away.
Maria didn't move until he was completely out of sight.
Only then did she return to the convent, her thoughts heavy with the weight of all that had been left unsaid.
Maria entered the prayer room, her steps unsteady as she approached the cross.
She knelt before it, tears welling in her eyes.
"Lord, he wants to see me fall," she whispered, her voice trembling. "He came just to provoke me. He spoke of love, but they were all lies."
Her thoughts swirled with images of Georg—his words, his touch, the way he looked at her. The way she had looked at him.
Maria sniffled, shaking her head. "And I even thought I was in love with him."
She lifted her gaze to the cross, desperation in her voice. "How do we know if someone truly loves us?"
No answer came, only the flickering of candlelight casting shadows along the walls.
Maria wiped the tears from her cheeks and stood abruptly. Anger swelled within her—at Georg, at herself. "I have to confess," she declared.
Her fists clenched, her body shook. She bowed her head, voice barely above a whisper. "I looked at his body..." Shame burned through her as she admitted, "I had impure thoughts."
Her gaze lifted slowly to the cross, her breath hitching. "I desired," she murmured.
One step. Then another.
"I desired to touch him," she confessed, her voice breaking.
Her knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the carpeted floor.
Hands clutching her head, she rocked slightly, her whispers feverish.
"I desired. I desired. I desired."
As if saying it enough could erase the sin. As if it could take it all back.
⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻
Dawn's soft glow seeped through the stained glass windows, casting muted colors onto the stone floor. Maria stirred, a dull ache spreading through her back as she realized she had fallen asleep in the prayer room.
A gentle voice broke through her haze.
"Maria."
She blinked awake to see Father Norman standing over her, concern etched into his face.
She quickly sat up, wincing at the pain in her stiff body, but ignored it. Seeing him here—perhaps sent by God Himself—felt like a relief.
"Father," she breathed, hands clenching in her lap.
Father Norman sighed, but there was kindness in his eyes. "Are you alright, child?"
Maria barely nodded, her heart pounding as she recalled the events of the night before. She couldn't hold it in any longer.
"I saw Georg," she admitted, voice shaking. "He was in an... indecent costume."
The priest's brows furrowed. "What?"
Maria swallowed hard, desperate to be rid of this torment. "I need to confess."
Wordlessly, Father Norman pulled a chair in front of her and sat down, hands folded, waiting.
Maria closed her eyes, summoning the courage. "I—" Her breath hitched. "I desired him." The words came out like a curse, like something vile, something she should not even utter.
Silence.
She clenched her hands tighter, as if bracing herself. "What penance will you give me, Father?"
Father Norman did not respond immediately. When he did, it was not with scorn, nor disappointment, but something else entirely—understanding.
"My child," he said gently, "being a saint does not necessarily mean abstaining from intimacy or staying virginal."
Maria's head shot up, eyes wide with shock.
"Many saints were married," he continued, his voice calm, soothing. "St. Joseph. St. Frances of Rome. St. Rita of Cascia. Even St. Augustine lived a wild life before becoming a saint."
She had come here seeking punishment. Instead, she was given... understanding.
"If only your chastity had been lost with that man," he said gently, "it wouldn't concern me as much."
Her whole body tensed. A strangled cry tore from her throat as she shook her head, pressing her palms against her ears. "Please," she pleaded, voice breaking, "don't say that."
Father Norman did not flinch at her outburst. He merely looked at her with the same quiet understanding, as if he had seen countless souls torn between virtue and longing.
"Purity is not just about the body, Maria," he continued, his voice low but firm. "It is about the heart. That is what matters most."
Maria's breath hitched as she looked up at him, her tear-filled eyes searching his face.
"All it takes to become a saint is purity of heart," he said, "even if other aspects are lacking."
A cold shiver ran through her. Could that truly be enough? Could she still be pure if her heart had already wandered?
The priest rested his hands in his lap, studying her with sorrow in his eyes. "But I see it, Maria. Your purity is fading."
Her lips parted, but no words came.
"You have lied, deceived—whether for me, for Frau Nina, or even for yourself."
Maria's stomach twisted in knots. "No," she whispered, shaking her head furiously.
"The cunning is growing within you, my child," Father Norman murmured, his gaze filled with pity.
She let out a broken sob, shaking her head again, but the truth was beginning to suffocate her.
"I understand," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Perhaps you did not even realize it. It might have been unconscious."
Maria clutched her habit, her fingers trembling. Slowly, as if in a daze, she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
Father Norman sighed. "The strongest thing in man is desire," he said, looking at her with something that almost resembled regret. "Even the most foolish man will suddenly find intelligence—he will find shortcuts, excuses, and justifications—all to fulfill his desire."
Maria let out a shaky breath, her vision blurred with tears.
Because she knew, deep down, that she was no exception.
Maria's sobs wracked her body as she clutched her hands together, her knuckles turning white. "Everything you're saying might be true, Father, but there's something I need you to believe," she added, voice raw with desperation.
Father Norman remained silent, watching her with a steady, expectant gaze.
With great conviction, Maria lifted her head. "I have Jesus in my heart."
Father Norman nodded, almost as if he had expected her answer. But then, in a calm yet unwavering tone, he said, "I know, my child. But he is there, too."
Maria's breath caught. Her vision blurred as she stared at him, shaking her head as if to deny the words.
"You must make a choice," Father Norman continued, his voice firm but not unkind. "You cannot delay this decision any longer. You cannot serve both God and the devil."
A shudder ran through her, her body tense with the weight of his words. Slowly, her eyes drifted to the wooden cross mounted on the wall to her right. It loomed above her, its presence both comforting and terrifying. Was she truly about to betray it? Had she not already?
Father Norman stepped forward until he stood just behind her, looking down at her hunched figure. His voice softened, almost as if speaking to himself. "I thought I had nurtured such a pure rose."
A fresh wave of tears welled up in Maria's eyes as she bowed her head, grief swelling in her chest. She had disappointed him. She had wasted all the guidance, all the prayers, all the time he had spent helping her walk in God's light.
A gentle pressure rested atop her head as Father Norman patted it lightly. The kindness of the gesture only deepened her sorrow.
He walked away, returning to his chair, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, silence filled the prayer room.
Then, with a sigh, he admitted, "I, too, have committed sins."
Maria glanced up at him, startled by the sudden confession.
The priest clasped his hands together, his gaze distant. "I have spent my whole life trying to control my temper, my impulsive nature, my bad instincts." He exhaled slowly before meeting her gaze once more. "I am a sinner, Maria."
Father Norman lowered himself into the chair with a weary sigh, his eyes never leaving Maria. The flickering candlelight cast deep shadows on his face, making the emotion in his gaze even more evident.
"But I found a purpose in my life," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Because I have guided a saint to offer herself to God."
Maria's heart clenched as she saw the priest's eyes glisten.
"It was you, Maria," he said, his voice breaking as tears slipped down his cheeks. "Please... don't abandon Christ."
A pang of guilt shot through her. She had made him cry. She had caused him, the man who had been nothing but patient and kind to her, to shed tears.
She shook her head quickly, her own eyes welling up. "I don't want to," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
With sudden desperation, she shuffled closer to him, her hands clasped together tightly. "Help me," she pleaded. "Help me not to feel what I'm feeling."
Father Norman wiped his tears away, composing himself before answering.
"If you truly love Christ more," he said gently, "then make this sacrifice. Offer your suffering to Him."
Maria bowed her head, staring at her trembling hands in her lap. Could she do that? Was it possible for her to simply cast aside these feelings, to lock them away and pretend they never existed?
Of course, it was. She knew she loved Christ more. She had to.
The priest stood, smoothing his robes. "I must return to Tyrol," he said suddenly.
Maria's head snapped up in shock. "Already?"
"The roof of the sacristy collapsed," he explained with a sigh.
She swallowed, unable to hide her distress. "It collapsed?"
Father Norman nodded. "It will take a long time to repair." He exhaled heavily, shaking his head. "I am disappointed to be away from my church."
Maria remained quiet, her thoughts swirling.
"The sacristy, you," he murmured again, almost to himself. "Everything is falling apart around me."
She lowered her gaze. She understood the feeling all too well.
