BLESS ME, FATHER (1)

CHAPTER 1

I wake before the bell tolls, as I always do. The air in my cell is cool and still, heavy with the faint scent of damp stone and beeswax from last night's vigil candles. My habit lies folded at the foot of the narrow bed, a stark white reminder of the vows that bind me. Final vows, taken just six months ago in the chapel's golden light, with Mother Superior's approving gaze upon me. I slip into it now, the fabric whispering against my skin like a secret I dare not voice. Purity. Obedience. Chastity. They are my armor, my cage.

The convent of St. Agnes rises with the dawn, a fortress of gray stone nestled in the hills, far from the clamor of the world. We are twenty sisters here, a small order devoted to prayer and quiet works tending the gardens, baking bread for the nearby village, teaching the children their catechism. My days blend into one another like the beads on my rosary, each one polished smooth by repetition. I cherish the rhythm, or so I tell myself. It keeps the restlessness at bay, that unnamed ache that stirs in the quiet hours, when the wind sighs through the cloisters like a lover's breath.

This morning, I made my way to the refectory for a silent breakfast. Sister Agnes, our eldest at seventy-two, nods to me as I take my seat. Her eyes are kind, crinkled at the corners from years of smiling through hardships. We eat in silence coarse bread, a bit of cheese, weak tea, our thoughts turned inward, toward God. But today, there's a murmur beneath the quiet. Whispers, faint as the rustle of habits, exchanged in stolen glances.

"Did you hear?" Sister Maria leans close during kitchen duty later, her voice a threadbare hush as we scrub pots. She's young, barely twenty, with freckles that dance across her nose like forbidden stars. "A new priest arrived today. From Rome, they say."

I pause, my hands submerged in the soapy water, the warmth seeping into my fingers. "From Rome? Why here? We're so remote."

She glances toward the door, as if Mother Superior might appear at any moment. "Rumors. Something about... an incident. He was asked to leave his parish." Her eyes widen, a mix of fear and thrill. "They say he's handsome. Too handsome for the clothes."

I feel a flush creep up my neck, hidden beneath my veil. "Sister, such talk is idle. We should pray for him instead."

She bites her lip, nodding, but the seed is planted. Handsome. Too handsome. I shake it off, focusing on the rhythm of scrubbing. The metal gleams under my efforts, a small act of devotion. But my mind wanders, unbidden, to the crucifix in the chapel the carved figure of Christ, his body twisted in agony and grace. I've stared at it during vespers, wondering at the humanity beneath the divine. Flesh and blood, suffering. Tempted.

After breakfast, I head to the garden. It's my favorite duty, the earth yielding under my knees as I weed the rose beds. The thorns prick if I'm not careful, drawing tiny beads of blood that I wipe away on my sleeve. Today, the roses are in full bloom, their petals velvet-red, scenting the air with something almost sinful sweet, heady, insistent. I clip a few wilted blooms, my fingers lingering on the soft curves. The sun climbs higher, warming my back through the heavy wool. Birds call from the orchard beyond the wall, free in ways I am not.

Sister Beatrice joins me mid-morning, her stout frame bending with a grunt to pull carrots from the soil. She's practical, no-nonsense, with a voice like gravel from years of chanting. "Celeste," she says, not looking up, "have you heard about Father Rossi?"

Father Rossi. So that's his name. I nod, keeping my eyes on the dirt. "Sister Maria mentioned it."

She snorts softly. "Mentioned? The girl's been buzzing like a bee. They say he was a boxer before the seminary. Can you imagine? Fists like hammers, now raised in blessing." She pauses, wiping sweat from her brow. "And whispers of women. In his old parish. Confessions that lingered too long."

My heart stutters, a quick, unwelcome beat. "We shouldn't speculate. It's unkind."

"Kind or not, truth has a way of slipping out." She straightens, carrots dangling from her hand like accusations. "Mother says he's here for penance. His or ours, I wonder."

I don't reply, the words sticking in my throat. Instead, I bury my hands deeper in the soil, feeling the cool earth ground me. Penance. We all carry our burdens here. Mine? A childhood orphaned young, the convent is my only family. I came at sixteen, seeking solace after the fever took my parents. The sisters wrapped me in their routines, and I found peace or something like it. But lately, in the still nights, dreams come. Faceless figures, touches that wake me gasping, sheets tangled around my legs. I pray them away, but they return, insistent as the tide.

Lunch passes in the refectory, more silence laced with anticipation. The bell for none rings out, calling us to prayer. We file into the chapel, the air cooler here, scented with incense and polished wood. I kneel in my usual spot, third row from the front, the worn kneeler familiar under my bones. The crucifix looms above the altar, Christ's eyes seeming to follow me today, sorrowful and knowing.

Mother Superior leads the office, her voice steady as stone. "The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want..."

We echo her, a chorus of devotion. But my mind drifts again, to the rumors. A boxer. Women in confessions. I close my eyes tighter, forcing the words out. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures...

The door at the back of the chapel creaks open mid-prayer. A hush falls, deeper than silence. Footsteps, measured and firm, echo off the stone floors. I don't turn propriety demands into focus but the air shifts, charged like before a storm.

Mother Superior pauses, then resumes, her tone unchanged. But I feel it: eyes on us, assessing. The footsteps stop near the altar. A throat clears, low and resonant.

"Sisters," comes a voice, deep as the chapel's shadows, accented faintly Italian, perhaps. "Forgive the interruption. I am Father Luca Rossi. I've been assigned to serve here."

I risked a glance then, my head bowed but eyes lifting. He's tall, broader than I expected, his cassock fitting like it was tailored for a warrior, not a priest. Dark hair cropped short, a jaw shadowed with stubble that speaks of haste or defiance. And his eyes green, piercing, scanning the rows as if searching for something lost. They land on me for a heartbeat, and the world tilts. Breath catches in my throat, a warmth blooming low in my belly. I look away, cheeks burning.

Mother Superior rises gracefully. "Welcome, Father. We were not expecting you until vespers."

"A change in plans," he replies, his tone smooth, almost amused. "The roads were kind. Shall I join the office?"

"Of course." She gestures to the presider's chair. He moves with a predator's grace, settling in. His presence fills the space, making the chapel feel smaller, intimate.

We continue the prayers, but my voice falters. His is strong, weaving through ours like smoke commanding, yet soft at the edges. When we reach the Gloria, he interrupts gently: "Sisters, if I may make a slight adjustment. Let us emphasize mercy today."

Mother nods, and we adjust, his lead pulling us along. Mercy. The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication.

After none, we disperse to our duties. I linger in the chapel, pretending to straighten the hymnals. He approaches the altar, lighting a candle with steady hands large, scarred knuckles speaking of that rumored past. Boxer. I watch from the shadows, unseen, or so I think.

"Sister," he says without turning, "you've dropped something."

I freeze. My rosary— it must have slipped from my pocket during prayers. It lies on the floor near his feet, beads glinting in the light.

I step forward, heart pounding. "Thank you, Father."

He bends, picks it up, holds it out. Our fingers brush as I take it—electric, a spark that races up my arm. His eyes meet mine again, closer now. Green like forest depths, holding secrets. "Careful," he murmurs, voice low, intimate. "These are precious. Easy to lose in distraction."

I nod, words failing. His gaze lingers, tracing my face—veil, cheeks, lips. Tension coils in me, breath shallow. Restraint in his posture, too—fists clenched at his sides, as if holding back.

"Father," I whisper, "welcome to St. Agnes."

A small smile curves his mouth, not quite reaching his eyes. "Thank you, Sister...?"

"Celeste."

"Celeste." He repeats it like a prayer, drawing out the syllables. "Heavenly. Fitting."

I turn away then, fleeing to the safety of the garden, rosary clutched tight. The thorns prick deeper now, but I welcome the pain. It grounds me, reminds me of vows. But his voice echoes in my mind, his touch a ghost on my skin.

Afternoon duties blur—teaching the village children in the small schoolroom attached to the convent. They squirm on benches, reciting the Ten Commandments. "Thou shalt not covet," little Tomas pipes up, his voice earnest.

I smile, but it feels forced. "Very good. And what does that mean?"

"Not wanting what isn't yours," says Anna, braids swinging.

Simple words, yet they pierce. I glance out the window, toward the chapel. He's there now, perhaps unpacking in the rectory. What does he covet? The rumors swirl again in my head—women, confessions too long. I shake it off, focusing on the lesson.

By compline, the evening prayer, the whispers have grown. In the halls, sisters exchange glances. "Did you see his hands?" Sister Maria hisses to me as we file in. "Like they could crush stone."

"Or cradle a soul," I reply, sharper than intended.

She blinks, falls silent.

Father Rossi leads the compline, his voice wrapping around the psalms like velvet. "Protect us, Lord, as we stay awake; watch over us as we sleep..."

Sleep. I wonder if he'll haunt mine tonight. As we kneel, our eyes meet once more across the chapel. His gaze holds mine, unblinking, a challenge or an invitation. Tension builds in the air between us, unspoken. My breath quickens, pulse racing under my habit. Restraint—I see it in the way his jaw tightens, the subtle shift of his shoulders.

The prayer ends. We rise, disperse to our cells. In mine, I undress by candlelight, the flame flickering shadows on the walls. I slip under the thin blanket, rosary in hand, beads cool against my palm. I pray for strength, for purity. But as sleep claims me, his face swims in the darkness—green eyes, scarred hands, voice like sin.

Restless dreams follow. A figure in black, approaching through mist. Hands reaching, not to bless, but to claim. I wake gasping, sheets damp with sweat, the ache deeper now. Obsession? No, just curiosity. Temptation? Perhaps. But power... whose? His, or the one stirring in me?

The bell tolls midnight. I kneel by my bed, whispering Hail Marys. Full of grace. But grace feels far away tonight, replaced by something darker, intimate, charging the air like thunder waiting to break.