⸻ ⋆. ❜
𝟏𝟔𝟏𝟐 𝖆𝖈.the first time father laurent saw her, she was dancing.
it was a festival — her father, the mayor of toulouse, had brought her. she wasn‘t meant to join the entertainers.
laughing, hair unbound — her gown twirling like smoke around her ankles. the priest saw it from the high steps of the cathedral and went still, like a man hearing his own death knell.
the daughter of a mayor. unmarried. noble-blooded enough to be untouchable. and yet…
her joy was a provocation. he knew sin when he saw it.
and he knew, with dread certainty, that it had taken her shape.
the second time he saw her, it was intentional.
he summoned her father under false pretenses — a request to discuss a parish matter. she came along, of course, obedient and proper, cloaked in navy velvet and golden earrings. she greeted him with a slight bow, unaware of how he’d watched your fingers as they folded delicately over your skirt.
“you were at the festival,” he said. not a question.
she blinked. “yes. i danced with the children — only briefly. harmless fun.”
father laurent didn’t respond. he watched the way your throat moved when you swallowed.
“it was dangerous,” he said, “to dance like that in public.”
she tilted her head. “dangerous?”
“there are… men who see things in it. things you may not intend.”
she frowned, brows drawing together. “and whose fault is that, monseigneur? the dancer’s, or the man’s?”
his jaw locked. heath curled in his stomach like coals under wet ash.
“you should be more careful,” he said tightly. “men are weak. even the righteous.”
that night, he dreamed of her.
her eyes. her mouth. the curve of her neck.
she burned him in silence and shadow. he woke choking your name.
this is not love, the voice inside him said. this is the devil in disguise.
but temptation had her voice. and it was soft. warm.
she began receiving gifts.
an old book on saint cecilia, anonymously left at her door.
a rosary of jet-black beads that seemed too fine for a common craftsman’s hand.
a single white lily in her chapel pew, every sunday without fail.
she assumed it was from a suitor. perhaps a knight. or a bored noble.
but when she lit a candle and saw the father watching her from the shadows — his eyes starving for something he refused to name — she began to understand.
then came the fire. not real flame. not yet.
“you could be pure, if you wanted. you could still be saved.” he said once, catching her alone in the quiet of a side chapel.
she took a step back. “saved from what?”
“from yourself. from the way men look at you. from the way i—”
he stopped, breathing too hard.
she stood tall. “i‘ve done nothing wrong.”
but his hand gripped the edge of a pew like a man on the edge of a cliff.
“i see you when i close my eyes,” he admitted, voice wrecked. “you haunt me. you torment me. you dance in my mind and i burn—“
“you blame me for your desire?” she whispered, horrified.
the priest‘s hands were shaking.
“i blame the devil. but the devil wears your face.”
he began preaching fire and judgment soon after.
he said the city would fall to lust. that temptation walked the streets dressed in velvet and pearls.
she knew what he meant.
the arrest came swiftly.
a forged charge. indecency. sedition. heresy.
her father begged for her release.
the priest intervened personally.
he visited your cell — not as a judge. not as a priest.
as a man in ruin.
she didn’t rise when he entered.
“i prayed,” he said quietly. “i starved myself. i begged god to free me from this. but he won’t.”
”so you’ll chain me instead?”
he stepped closer. “i can still save you. you only have to say the word. only have to come to me—willing. as mine.”
”if i don’t?”
„then you’ll burn. and i’ll burn with you.”