The days following the incident at the altar were a blurred montage of feverish prayers and restless pacing. For Jeremiah, the stone walls of the rectory, which once felt like a fortress of peace, now felt like the narrow confines of a tomb. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the curve of Celestine's neck; every time he opened his Bible, her name seemed to be written between the lines of the Psalms.
He was a man possessed, though he attributed it to a spiritual crisis rather than a chemical one. He spent hours prostrate on the cold floor of the chapel, begging for the "demon of distraction" to be cast out. He didn't realize that the demon wasn't a spirit, but a lingering, enchanted mist in his bloodstream.
On Tuesday afternoon, the heavy velvet curtain of the confessional booth creaked open. Jeremiah sat in the darkness, the wooden screen between him and the penitent acting as a thin veil between two worlds.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," a voice whispered.
Jeremiah's heart stopped. It was a voice of smoke and honey. He would recognize it even if the world were ending.
"Celestine," he breathed, the name a sin in itself.
"You remember my name. I'm flattered, Jeremiah." There was no "Father" in her address. She stripped him of his title with a single syllable. "I've come to confess a theft."
Jeremiah leaned closer to the screen, his forehead resting against the wood. "What... what did you steal?"
"A heart," she said, and he could almost hear the smile in her voice. "It was locked away in a golden box, guarded by angels and incense. But I found the key. Tell me, Father, is it a sin to want something that was meant for God?"
Jeremiah's hands trembled. He should have stood up. He should have rebuked her and walked away. But the spell—that gilded snare—tightened. The scent of jasmine began to leak through the wooden lattice, filling the cramped booth until he felt lightheaded.
"You must leave," he managed to say, though his voice lacked conviction. "The path you are walking... it leads to ruin. For both of us."
"Is it ruin to feel alive for the first time?" Celestine's hand pressed against the screen, her fingers visible through the small holes in the wood. "You are a man of blood and bone, Jeremiah. Not a statue. Why do you hide in the dark?"
The encounter in the confessional was the beginning of the end for Jeremiah's reputation. Over the next week, his duties were neglected. He missed the morning Matins. He forgot the names of the sick he was meant to visit.
The Bishop, a man named Malachi with eyes like flint and a soul forged in the fires of old-world discipline, began to watch Jeremiah with growing suspicion. He noticed the way the young priest's eyes darted toward the entrance of the church, the way his hands shook during the Consecration.
"Jeremiah," Bishop Malachi said one evening in the library, his voice dropping like a heavy stone. "The shadows under your eyes tell a story of a war you are losing. There are rumours of a woman. A woman who haunts the gardens of the rectory at night."
Jeremiah didn't look up from his desk. "I am merely tired, Excellency. The burden of the flock..."
"Do not lie to me within these walls," Malachi interrupted, leaning over him. "I smell her on you. Not the scent of a parishioner seeking guidance, but the scent of a siren. If there is a snare at your feet, break it now, or the Church will break you to save your soul."
That night, Jeremiah could not sleep. The air in his room felt stagnant, suffocating. He stepped out into the rectory garden, the moon hanging like a pale, judging eye in the sky.
He found her by the rosebushes. Celestine was barefoot, her hair cascading down her back like a river of ink. She held a single white rose in her hand, but as she looked at him, she pricked her finger on a thorn. A single drop of blood fell onto the white petals.
"You shouldn't be here," Jeremiah whispered, even as he moved toward her.
"I can't help it," she said, her voice trembling—and for the first time, the confidence was gone.
This was the moment the tide began to turn. Celestine had cast the spell to humiliate him, to win a game of power. But as she stood in the moonlight, seeing the torment in his beautiful, haunted face, something shifted inside her. The cold, manipulative heart she had carried for years felt a sudden, sharp pang of genuine agony.
She had meant to lead him to the edge of the cliff and watch him fall. Instead, she realized she was standing on the edge with him, and her hand was reaching for his.
"Jeremiah," she murmured, reaching out to touch his cheek.
As her skin met his, a spark—not of magic, but of something far more dangerous and human—erupted between them. The spell flickered, but the connection deepened. Jeremiah closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, a sob catching in his throat. He was a priest of the Most High, but in the silence of the garden, he was just a man drowning in the scent of jasmine and blood.