“Say no more, Marcel. Your hesitation now speaks more to me than your words ever could. You have my permission.”
The young man frowned. “Sir, there appears to be a bit of a misunderstanding. I wasn’t requesting your permission, per se, I was simply—”
“The permission has been granted, my boy! Smile, be merry! Let us celebrate! More Dom Pérignon?”
He gave a tight sigh and laid his intense gaze upon the older gentleman. Devereux appeared not to have heard his objection, for he now filled both of their crystalline flutes, spoke a hearty “To the union!” and emptied his glass.
“Sir, with the utmost possible respect, your daughter isn't going to receive any offers other than my own.”
“Why, of course not! Don’t be foolish! I've just promised you her hand, haven’t I?”
“There are, quite literally, no other bachelors left in the English countryside.”
The older man’s face darkened momentarily, a specter of remembrance haunting his expression. “I suppose that is true, isn't it. The end of civilization, and whatnot.” But the spell left him as quickly as it had come; he turned to the suitor with his flaming eyes, no less put out than the fires of Hell. “No matter! If the rest of the lot were here, I’d still pick you. A good and virtuous man. Marcel, the priest from a land far away. Yes, I’m certain of it—you are the handsome young man I'd want to depetal and deflower my young Violet.”
He choked on his drink and immediately reddened. “Monseigneur Devereux—!”
The old man laughed boisterously, clapping Marcel upon his shoulder. “A test, my dear boy! You've passed with flying colors. Another drink!”
“I haven't finished the one you poured me two minutes ago. Perhaps we should—”
“Marcel, you clever little devil, you're absolutely right! What am I thinking, getting us drunk on champagne? A red! That is what we need! A nice, dark red. I know just the sort.” A delicate beam of moonlight caught the pink in his cheeks as he stood and started for the door.
“Sir. There is one matter of importance that I wish to resolve before I wed your lovely daughter.”
“Yes?” Devereux returned to his armchair, easily tempted in his current state. “Out with it, then!”
“Her beliefs are quite different than my own. Communion, the Last Judgement, the man called Jesus Christ… They're all quite nonsense, if you ask me. How would you propose that I—how does one put this kindly—persuade her of the correct path?”
Again, his spirits faded. “Right,” he said, donning an unusual tone of seriousness. “I suppose you might begin by confronting her about it.” The bachelor nodded but remained silent. The old man stared out the window. In the strength of Devereux’s every movement, Marcel saw what made him the undisputed leader of this community, and he burned.
He coveted what Devereux had achieved for himself in the Aftermath.
“Confronting her by saying—what, exactly?”
“I’m here to ask you about that.”
The suitor straightened in his seat, overcome with the power of his Savior. “I will tell her, Violet, I know that you have lived your whole life believing in the God of your ancestors, and while they are entitled to believe as they will, their system of morality is utterly and entirely wrong. The only true way to Salvation is the Path of the Sun. If you permit me to guide you into Their Light, and repent as They see fit, then I’m certain that your heresy will eventually be forgiven.”
He narrowed his eyes at the young man, who appeared to not realize the treacherous ground he had tread upon. “You seem to have it all planned out. Why discuss this matter with me and not your confrères?”
Having misjudged the old man’s state of sobriety, Marcel winced and attempted to reconcile his transgression. “Well, you see, sir, it’s just that—you’re her father. I assumed that you might—”
“—might know her better than you? For Heaven’s sake, you are her fiancé! There isn’t a soul in England who should have a more intimate knowledge of Violet than you!”
At the evocation of the Lord, Marcel stiffened, and his upper lip began to twitch.
Before he could utter a word edgewise, the old man spoke. “Oh, my dear boy—that was absolutely not my intention. I must extend to you my sincerest apologies. I rather lost my head for a moment. You were quite right to have asked me that—it was brilliant thinking on your part.”
More at ease, Marcel settled back in his chair. “Well?”
“I will answer shortly, but if you will excuse me for one moment… I think that now would be the opportune time for the red.” With a good-natured wink, he disappeared.
Marcel threw up his hands, waiting once again for this drunkard of a step-father to return from his cellar. Devereux came back to the parlor with two ornate goblets. He offered one to the suitor, proclaiming boldly, “It’s my finest drinkware and my finest drink, I hope that you find it to your liking, bottoms up! Drink, drink, my boy! To the newest Devereux! To my daughter’s virginity! To the Lord, Jesus Christ! Amen!”
The young man would never know exactly what words were spoken. The poison seized his body as soon as the laced wine slid down his throat, and the final scene seared into his life was Devereux pouring out his goblet onto his convulsing body.