Lucy had no strong opinion of the Church. “I don’t know Adam from Adam,” he was fond of saying, one of many self-authored quips he felt deserved a superior audience to the lard-armed women who loitered about the fountain in the square. But there was something in Father Raymond he had responded to—a sincerity, an unpolluted empathy. Father Raymond was a moral and humane man. He followed the word of God to the letter and at night, alone in his chambers, felt the Holy Spirit coursing through his body like bird flocks. He was relieved to see Lucy in good health. In fact he was relieved to see anyone. The village was largely non-religious, and he passed full days without so much as a knock on the door. He ushered his visitor into the sitting room, setting out a tray of ancient cookies which crumbled to sand before Lucy could deliver them to his mouth. A pot of pale tea offered no palatable diversion and at last he gave up on the idea of refreshment altogether to tell the story of the stranger’s visit. At the conclusion of the tale Lucy asked who the man was, and Father Raymond made an overtaxed expression.
“How would I know?”
“I was wondering if it wasn’t God,” said Lucy.
Father Raymond looked doubtful. “God doesn’t travel through the night volleying disease.”
“Death, then.”
“Perhaps.” Father Raymond scratched his nose. “Or perhaps he was a marauder. Is anything missing from the house, that you noticed?”
“Only my father.”
“Hmm,” said the priest. He picked up a cookie, which perished. He brushed the crumbs from his hands.
“The man will come again, I think,” said Lucy.
“He told you this?”
“No. But I feel it.”
“Well, there you are. Next time you see the fellow, be sure and ask his name.”
In this manner, Father Raymond did little to put Lucy’s mind at ease regarding the stranger in the burlap sack; and yet he proved to be of assistance in another, unexpected way. When Lucy admitted to having no plans for his future the priest took the trouble to write letters of introduction to every castle within a hundred kilometers, the idea being that Lucy might excel as some manner of servant. These letters went unanswered save for one, penned by a man named Myron Olderglough, the majordomo of one Baron Von Aux’s estate in the remote wilderness of the eastern mountain range. Mr. Olderglough had been won over by Father Raymond’s romantic description of Lucy as an “unmoored soul in search of nestled safe harbor.” (It was rumored Father Raymond spent his friendless nights reading adventure novels, which colored his dreams and waking life as well. Whether this was true or not is unknown; that the priest was partial to poetic turns of phrase is inarguable.) An offer of employment and terms of payment rounded out the missive. The position (Mr. Olderglough assigned it the name of undermajordomo, which Lucy and Father Raymond decided was not a word at all) was lowly and the pay mirrored this but Lucy, having nothing better to do, and nowhere in the world to be, and feeling vulnerable at the thought of the man in burlap’s return, embraced his fate and wrote back to Mr. Olderglough, formally accepting the offer, a decision which led to many things, including but not limited to true love, bitterest heartbreak, bright-white terror of the spirit, and an acute homicidal impulse.