The silent pact in the grove was like an invisible chain, binding Father Lucien Croft inescapably. In the days that followed, he moved like a sleepwalker, carrying out Eleanor Warren's commands. Under the pretense of "spiritual care" and "comforting the bereaved," he formally visited the crumbling Warren estate. After an hour-long closed-door "conversation" with Eleanor, he emerged pale and hollow, as if his very soul had been wrung out, and announced to the old servant Martha the decision he claimed had come to him in prayer: he would marry Miss Eleanor Warren. Through the sacred bond of matrimony, he would grant her and this withering family the shelter of the Church.
Martha was first stunned, then overwhelmed with tears of gratitude. She did not see the despair hidden in the priest's eyes. She only believed it to be the mercy of God, the compassion of a shepherd upon her poor mistress. She blessed them fervently and immediately began preparing what little she could, arranging a ceremony that might look proper but could never be grand.
The news spread quietly, stirring whispers and faint curiosity. Most muttered only that Father Croft was a man of rare kindness or sneered that the Warren girl had finally grasped her last straw. No one cared to look deeper. No one wondered what lay behind this marriage.
The wedding morning dawned gray and heavy. The church was vast, yet almost empty, its air damp with the scent of old timber. A few required clerics stood by, joined by several elderly parishioners who came more out of curiosity than devotion.
Lucien stood at the altar in his best priestly robe, though the fabric had long since faded from washing. His spine was stiff, his face paler than usual, his green eyes fixed on the blurred light spilling through stained glass. He looked less like a man than a husk. His hand, resting on the Bible, trembled at the fingertips.
Eleanor Warren wore a gown that had belonged to her late mother, carefully laundered but threadbare, its style hopelessly outdated. Her deep golden hair was pinned neatly at the back of her head, exposing a pale forehead and a face composed into unnatural stillness. She had no veil, only a small white wildflower tucked in her hair. Step by step she approached the altar. Her eyes, cold gray and unblinking, swept across the empty pews before resting on Lucien. There was no shyness, no joy, only the calm scrutiny of someone making sure a tool was in its proper place.
The old priest intoned the liturgy, his voice cracked and wavering with age. When the question came—would Lucien Croft take Eleanor Warren as his wife?— Lucien faltered. His throat bobbed violently. That one simple "I do" weighed heavier than lead and nearly strangled him. At last, the word escaped, fragile and rasping, scarcely audible.
When it was Eleanor's turn, her answer rang clear and steady, her voice without ripple or hesitation. "I do."
The rings were exchanged almost carelessly. Lucien slid a plain silver band onto her finger with mechanical precision. The metal was icy against her skin, and Eleanor's lashes flickered, almost imperceptibly. It was no token of love, but a seal, an entry ticket to her path of vengeance. She in turn produced a simple band for him. His hand was clammy and trembling when she took it, and she slid the ring on with brisk finality, careful not to linger.
The ceremony ended in silence. No cheers, no kiss, no feast. A few witnesses mumbled perfunctory congratulations before hurrying away. Martha wept with joy and laid out bread and water, calling it a wedding meal, though the meagerness of it cut like a blade.
Lucien longed to flee as soon as the vows were done, but Eleanor's calm gaze held him in place. They still needed to maintain appearances. He walked with her and Martha back to the Warren house, which would now, at least in name, be their new home—though Lucien had his own quarters behind the church.
That evening he excused himself, saying he must spend the night in prayer. Eleanor let him go. She remained alone in the empty Warren parlor, listening to Martha hum hymns in the kitchen, staring at the cold ring on her finger.
It did not bind flesh so much as destiny. This marriage was a lie, but it gave her a foothold. The title of Mrs. Croft might be humble, yet it was indispensable.
The very next day, Eleanor packed her small wooden trunk and moved into Lucien's modest lodgings behind the church. Two narrow bedrooms, a cramped parlor-study, and a bare kitchen—that was their shared space.
Lucien avoided her whenever he could. He grew even more withdrawn, leaving for church duties at dawn and not returning until deep night. When forced to speak, his gaze darted nervously, his face clouded with humiliation, as if her presence was a perpetual reminder of secrets better buried and chains he could never escape.
Eleanor, unbothered, claimed one bedroom, arranged her few belongings, and began settling in. She learned the rhythms of the parish, observed its visitors, and even tended to small chores like sweeping or preparing meals—though her cooking, like Lucien's, left much to be desired, and they still relied mostly on church provisions.
Their silence was heavier than argument. The house often felt airless, broken only by the sound of turning pages or a shared breath. They were strangers forced beneath one roof, shackled by a secret.
One evening Lucien returned earlier than usual. Opening the door, he froze. Eleanor sat by the window, reading a battered church history from his shelves. The last rays of sunlight traced her profile, her golden hair aglow, yet the chill that radiated from her made the scene stark, not warm.
Lucien hesitated at the threshold, uncertain whether to step forward or retreat.
Eleanor lifted her gaze, her gray eyes cool. "Your shelf holds very little on inquisitorial trials. What you do have is cursory at best. Do you know where I might find more detailed records, even lesser copies?"
Her words were direct, spoken as casually as asking about supper.
Lucien's heart clenched. His face paled. He looked away, muttering, "Those… those are not for us to access. I… I am only a minor priest…"
"Everyone begins somewhere, Father Croft." Eleanor closed the book, her voice steady, brooking no refusal. "Your wife has a scholarly interest in religious history. She wishes to assist you. Is that so unusual?"
He had no answer. His gaze fell on her hand, on the silver band glinting in the dusk. It seared his eyes. He knew this was only the beginning. This forced marriage had branded him already, and the road to damnation had just laid its first stone.
His head lowered, his voice no more than a whisper. "I… I will look into it."
He disappeared into his room then, shutting the door tight as though fleeing.
Eleanor turned back to the window. Night had swallowed the last light. She toyed with the ring on her finger, feeling the cold metal scrape her skin.
The brand was set. The play had begun.