The Queen. Tiffany Reisz

lifetime?

      Time stopped with that kiss. The image imprinted itself upon Nora’s mind like a tintype photograph... She stood at Søren’s right as Michael’s mistress of honor—no one would have believed her a maid or a matron, so mistress it was—and Kingsley stood to the left of Søren as Griffin’s best man. The wedding was held in the Great Hall of the thousand-year-old castle. The vibrant blue walls gleamed like polished azurite in the glow of a dozen brass-and-crystal chandeliers. Candles and flowers stationed on the ebony oak floors encircled the wedding party. Kingsley, Griffin and Søren all wore kilts. Griffin’s and Kingsley’s were red, white and green, the tartan of his mother’s ancestors. Søren’s kilt was black and blue, the traditional clergy tartan of Scotland and bruises. Upon request and because she couldn’t tell Griffin no when he’d asked so nicely, she’d worn a Scottish wedding dress, tiered white silk and lace peeking out from under a corseted red-and-green tartan overlay. Michael had forgone the kilt—not his style, he said—and chosen a hip Rat Pack–era tuxedo with a black shirt and black jacket. A better-looking married couple she’d never seen in her life and not because they were so beautiful, although they were, but because their love was true and pure and hard-won. Every act of love was an act of courage, but for Michael and Griffin it was especially so. The world didn’t often reward those who loved outside the lines. Nora had learned this lesson the hard way.

      The kiss went on so long the guests rose to their feet and applauded.

      Griffin turned to the masses and issued an order.

      “Less applauding,” he yelled at his guests. “More kissing!”

      “No one has to tell me twice,” Kingsley said, holding out his hand to Juliette, the mother of his daughter with another one on the way, and the most beautiful woman in attendance by far. Laughing, Juliette rose to her feet and put her hand in Kingsley’s. He dipped her back and gave her an old Hollywood kiss.

      “Shall we?” Søren asked.

      “In front of two hundred people?”

      “Why not?”

      “Is that a rhetorical question or do you really want me to list all eight hundred reasons why not?”

      Søren answered by taking her face in his hands and kissing her—a kiss like Communion, like wine on her tongue. She heard a few gasps of shock from the assembly followed by laughter and applause. Apparently this was the first time they’d seen a Catholic priest kissing a woman. It was a first for Nora as well, being kissed by Søren in front of so many people they didn’t know. Yes, Kingsley had forced all the staff and the guests to sign non-disclosure agreements, but that was no guarantee word wouldn’t leak that a certain well-respected Jesuit priest passionately kissed a fairly notorious dominatrix at a wedding in Scotland. And not just any wedding—a same-sex wedding. Søren could be laicized for performing a same-sex marriage. He’d get in less trouble if he were caught by the Pope himself sodomizing her in the Tomb of Saint Peter. Not that she’d ever had that fantasy—not very often anyway. Officiating the service had been Søren’s gift to Michael, whom he loved like a son. When Nora had reminded him of the very real danger of excommunication if caught, Søren had replied, Michael asked me. It’s my honor to do it. Since Søren was a man of honor that had been the end of it.

      But it wouldn’t be the end of it.

      Søren was a Jesuit priest who had kissed a woman in front of two hundred people and performed a same-sex wedding. A kiss plus a wedding plus what would happen tonight at nine o’clock added up to one very simple conclusion.

      Søren’s days as a priest were numbered.

       2

      Nora’s Last Confession

      NORA PULLED BACK from the kiss and saw a dozen or more couples kissing, including Griffin and Michael, who were still kissing.

      And.

      Still.

      Kissing.

      “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Griffin,” Nora said, reaching in front of Søren for Kingsley’s hand. “You two make out as long as you want. The King and I are going to get a drink.”

      Nora gave Kingsley the end of the long plaid ribbon she’d tied around her bouquet. As they walked on either side of the happy couple—still kissing, of course—they lifted their hands and passed the sash over their heads like a wedding bower. Behind her she heard Søren speaking to the crowd of guests.

      “I’d suggest everyone retreat to the banquet hall,” he said in his most authoritarian clergy voice. “It seems the groom and groom might be a while.”

      Kingsley took her arm in his to escort her down the long aisle to the door.

      “I heard we have you to thank for the wedding,” Kingsley said, kissing the back of her hand.

      Nora winced. “Michael had a little case of cold feet. I beat it out of him.”

      “Literally?”

      “It took a solid hour of flogging followed by an hour of wax-play. Kid came so hard he almost passed out. Two-hour nap, and he was ready to get married. I love saving the day,” she said. “I’m so good at it.”

      They waited in the foyer and soon they were joined by Michael’s mother and sister, Griffin’s parents and three brothers, and Søren. Juliette, wearing a red gown to match Kingsley’s kilt, passed Céleste into his arms. And when Michael and Griffin finally emerged from the Great Hall it was to a hail of applause and a shower of rice. Céleste was the best rice thrower of them all, Kingsley assured his little girl. Michael’s lips appeared swollen from so much passionate kissing and his pale cheeks were flushed, but Nora had to admit, she’d never seen him or Griffin ever look happier. Today was a beautiful day to be in love.

      The guests who greeted the couple with hugs and kisses were a hodgepodge of friends and family, or as Kingsley called them, “the freaks and the straights.” Mistress Irina, the first dominatrix Kingsley had trained for The 8th Circle, had sat next to Michael’s aunt and uncle during the ceremony. Michael’s sister Erin had borrowed a tissue from Alfred, Griffin’s white-haired butler, who’d had to surreptitiously wipe his own eyes a time or two during the ceremony. Nora’d been a little surprised he’d come all the way to Scotland for Griffin’s wedding. When she had asked him why he’d made the long trip from upstate New York, he’d answered, “He’s a man-child and a deviant, and he has more money than sense, young lady. So of course I’m here for his wedding to his shamefully younger boy toy. It’s the only sensible thing he’s ever done in his life.” Then he’d stalked off before Nora could hug him or worse, cry in his arms, which would have been an unforgivable affront to his dignity.

      “Good ceremony, Father,” she said, smiling up at Søren. “I loved the homily.”

      “Thank you. The Lord gives me good material to work with. I suppose He deserves most of the credit.” Leave it to a Jesuit to be simultaneously pious and smug.

      “Oops, picture time,” she said. “I should go.”

      The photographer was already attempting to corral the wedding party back into the Great Hall. Søren started back into the hall with her.

      “You can’t be in the pictures,” she reminded him.

      “Michael expects me to be in at least one of the photographs for him and Griffin.”

      “Søren...this is not a good idea.”

      “Michael’s like a son to me,” he said. “When you have a child, you make sacrifices for them.”

      “All right. Pictures it is. In for a penny, in for a pounding, right?” She took his hand in hers. His fingers trembled, and she met his eyes with a question.

      “I’m fine,” he said before she had the chance to ask.

      “It’s