Father lays a hand on each of our shoulders. “Jessamine and Weed, my blessings upon you both. We are a family at last.” He turns to me; tenderly he takes my face in his hands. “Jessamine, if your mother could only see what a lovely young woman you have grown to be, I know she would be pleased. How sad it is that she did not live to see you grown, or to see you wed …”

He drops his hands and turns away. “No, I refuse to be melancholy. Tonight is for happiness only, and Jessamine has prepared a wonderful celebration dinner for us. But first, a toast.”

Father fairly skips around the parlor. “Most proud fathers would call for champagne to toast an engagement. But I have none on hand, nor any wine either. Only a rather common whiskey, and my store of absinthe. Ah, wait!”

He turns and reaches up to the small cabinet that hangs above the heavy wooden server. “This too is absinthe”—he cradles the bottle in two hands—“but it is a very special vintage, worthy of the occasion. Jessamine, fetch a pitcher of cold water, please.”

I obey, and return to find Father explaining to Weed: “The duke gave this bottle to me as a gift after I cured his clerk of works of a crippling gout. It had been presented to him by King Louis of France, shortly before the revolution.”

As he speaks, Father gathers three glasses from the server, a corkscrew, and an ornate slotted silver spoon. “Ironic, isn’t it? King Louis lost his head to the guillotine, but his prize liquor is still firmly in possession of its cork. I have been waiting for a special occasion to open it. How thrilling that the right moment is finally here.”

There is a sharp sound as Father withdraws the cork. He pours a small amount of absinthe in each of the three short, flared glasses, then places a cube of sugar in the slotted spoon and sets the spoon atop a glass. Slowly he drizzles cold water into the spoon, letting it drip through the sugar. As the water hits the syrupy absinthe, it whirls into ribbons, a tiny maelstrom of green.

Father hands the finished drink to Weed and makes another for himself. Then he repeats the process to prepare mine. “For Jessamine, an extra cube of sugar, I think,” he says with a smile. “The taste will be too strong otherwise.”

He hands the glass to me. I am unaccustomed to drink, but the scent is sweet licorice, not unpleasant at all. And the otherworldly green of the drink reminds me of Weed’s eyes; I wonder if he will notice the similarity?

“What a rich, vibrant hue. It is a garden in miniature, is it not?” Father sniffs his drink appreciatively. “Now, for our toast: To my lovely daughter, Jessamine. And to my new son, Weed.” He gazes warmly at us both. “To your health!”