The bishop of San Francisco poured them each a glass of wine, puffing at a fat cigar while measuring Victor with a steady gaze. Taking the cigar from his mouth, he carefully sculpted the glowing end against a crystal ashtray.
"Have a taste for young boys, do you, Father Doulton?"
"No, Your Grace."
"But you've never married. Preach against the war? Get too openly involved in politics?"
"No, Your Grace."
Again, Victor felt the piercing gaze.
"Meddle with the wrong man's son and heir, perhaps? Like Oscar Wilde?"
"Nothing so... public, Your Grace."
The bishop, much to Victor's amazement, roared with laughter.
"Son, if you're not careful, you'll have my job someday. Welcome to the Episcopal Diocese of San Francisco, may God help us all. A finer gallery of rogues you'll never find. Now don't get me wrong, son. I don't give a tinker's damn what you do behind your own locked door. That's between you and the Almighty. But if it comes out in public, and there's an element in this fair city that delights in trumpeting such things, I'll hand them the rope to hang you."
Reaching into his desk, he handed Victor a gilt-edged business card.
"You didn't get this from me."
Read the full story at Sweater Weather Magazine, Vol. 1, Issue 2, here
"Have a taste for young boys, do you, Father Doulton?"
"No, Your Grace."
"But you've never married. Preach against the war? Get too openly involved in politics?"
"No, Your Grace."
Again, Victor felt the piercing gaze.
"Meddle with the wrong man's son and heir, perhaps? Like Oscar Wilde?"
"Nothing so... public, Your Grace."
The bishop, much to Victor's amazement, roared with laughter.
"Son, if you're not careful, you'll have my job someday. Welcome to the Episcopal Diocese of San Francisco, may God help us all. A finer gallery of rogues you'll never find. Now don't get me wrong, son. I don't give a tinker's damn what you do behind your own locked door. That's between you and the Almighty. But if it comes out in public, and there's an element in this fair city that delights in trumpeting such things, I'll hand them the rope to hang you."
Reaching into his desk, he handed Victor a gilt-edged business card.
"You didn't get this from me."
Read the full story at Sweater Weather Magazine, Vol. 1, Issue 2, here