The morning after the garden encounter, the sun rose with a cruel, clinical brightness. For Celestine, the victory she had sought for weeks felt like ash in her mouth. She sat in her velvet-draped parlor, staring into a silver hand mirror, but she didn't see her own reflection. She saw Jeremiah's eyes—the way they had shattered when she touched him.
She had been a predator of hearts since she was nineteen, taught by a mother who viewed men as nothing more than fuel for one's own fire. The love spell she had woven was a masterpiece of craft: a blend of high-frequency obsession and physical longing. It was designed to make the victim a shell, a hollow thing that only she could fill.
But as she watched a single tear track through her powder, Celestine realized the terrifying truth. The mirror of her soul had cracked. Through the fissures, something unbidden was leaking in: Guilt.
"It's just a game," she whispered to the empty room. "He's just a priest. A man in a dress playing at holiness."
But she knew better. Jeremiah wasn't "playing." His goodness was a tangible thing, a light so bright it made her feel like a smudge on a clean window. He had forgiven her in the confessional even as he suspected her of ruining him. He had looked at her in the moonlight not with lust, but with a devastating, tragic kind of adoration.
She reached for the vial on her vanity—the anchor of the spell. Usually, the liquid was a vibrant, pulsing pink. Today, it looked murky, like stagnant water.
The magic was failing. Not because it wasn't strong enough, but because something stronger was displacing it. Genuine love. And for a woman of her lineage, genuine love was more than a weakness; it was a death sentence. She remembered her mother's dying words, whispered through blue lips: "Beware the heart that beats for another, Celestine. For our blood carries a price that no heart can pay."
Driven by a sudden, frantic need to save him from herself, Celestine returned to the Cathedral. She didn't hide in the third pew this time. She sought out the side chapel of St. Jude, the patron of lost causes.
She found Jeremiah there, cleaning the candle snuffers. He looked haggard. The vibrant youthfulness he'd possessed a month ago had been replaced by a sallow, bone-deep exhaustion.
"Jeremiah," she called softly.
He turned, and the joy that lit up his face at the sight of her was more painful than any curse. "Celestine. You... you shouldn't come here. The Bishop is watching the doors."
"I came to tell you it was a lie," she said, her voice cracking. She stepped into the circle of candlelight. "The feelings, the pull you feel toward me... it isn't yours, Jeremiah. I stole your will. I used a—"
"Stop," he interrupted, his voice surprisingly firm. He stepped toward her, his shadow stretching long against the stone floor. "I know what people say about your family. I know about the 'charms' and the whispers. But a spell can only magnify what is already there, can't it?"
He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her shoulder, trembling.
"I have prayed for this to leave me," he whispered. "I have scourged my soul for an answer. And yet, when I see you, I see the only truth I've ever known. If this is a sin, then I am a sinner. But do not tell me my heart is not my own."
The Bishop's Shadow
Their moment was shattered by the heavy clack-clack of boots on marble.
Bishop Malachi emerged from the shadows of the nave, flanked by two elder priests. His face was a mask of cold, ecclesiastical fury.
"Father Jeremiah," Malachi's voice boomed, echoing off the high vaults. "I gave you the chance to excise this cancer in private. You have chosen to bring your sacrilege into the very house of the Lord."
Jeremiah stood his ground, moving instinctively to shield Celestine. "Excellency, she was just leaving."
"She is leaving," Malachi agreed, his eyes narrowing on Celestine with a look of pure loathing. "And you are coming with us. The Inquisition of the Holy Vows has been convened. You will answer for the desecration of your office, or you will be stripped of it before the sun sets."
Celestine looked at Jeremiah. She saw the fear in his eyes—not for himself, but for her. In that instant, she felt the last shard of the spell break within her own heart. She didn't want to own him anymore. She wanted him to be free. She wanted him to be safe.
But as the guards moved forward to separate them, she felt a strange, cold shiver run down her spine. A premonition. A dark, ancient memory of a curse she had laughed at as a girl.
If she loved him, he would die.
She looked at Jeremiah—really looked at him—and felt the terrifying, overwhelming surge of true, unadulterated love. And in that same moment, Jeremiah coughed. A small, dry sound.
On the white marble floor between them, a single, tiny fleck of black blood landed. The unknown disease had found its first spark.