Hannibal checked over dinner once more, then came to answer the door. "Lucifer, please come in. Or do you prefer Morningstar?" He was guessing it wasn't Mr. anything.

Hannibal nodded. "It is; thank you. I have already matched tonight's dinner with its own wine, but I shall keep this for later."

He led the way back to the dining room, with its nicely appointed dark wood furniture and wall of herbs. "How are you finding Fandom so far?"

"Fortunately, outside of class they're easy to avoid, if you're of a mind."

Hannibal set the wine on a side-table and poured the Bordeaux. "Please, have a seat. I'll bring the food."

Hannibal kept up the conversation as he finished plating the food and gathered the plates.

"Caritas tends to be busier from what I can tell, but I suppose that's to be expected. I don't frequent either myself."

He came back with the bouillabaisse, as beautifully plated as a stew could be, fennel fronds and rouille on top and clams peeking out artistically. The empty tail of the lobster curled nicely around the base of the bowl. "A Provençal Bouillabaisse to start."

"

"I try to use local foods as much as possible," Hannibal agreed. "It's better for the environment and for taste. Baltimore, fortunately, is quite good for seafood."

He sat and toasted Lucifer. "Bon apetit."

Hannibal laughed. "Six years ago I came to teach at Fandom, although I still lived in Baltimore for a time. I moved here around five years ago. And so far I haven't found anything here to drive me mad. I keep a very open mind. Though I will admit one or two students have driven me to very stiff drinks."

"Unicorns?" Hannibal asked.

He hadn't had that one yet.

"It's likely she knows a different version of you," Hannibal said. "I haven't run into that myself yet, but I understand it's not uncommon. Still, what relevance does that have to unicorns?"

"Most of the issues I see here, apart from the standard banal difficulties, are people attempting to cope with the island's peculiarities. I have yet to see anybody entirely irrational." A pity, really; that would be interesting.

"My difficult students have simply been entirely unable to cook and incredibly stubborn. But you didn't come here to speak about our students," he said, waving it off. "Tell me about yourself; I must admit I'm curious."

Hannibal chuckled. He definitely appreciated a good irony.

"You get tired of being blamed for humans' impulses, I'd imagine."

"Fortunately, I firmly believe in embracing every aspect of myself," Hannibal said. "If anything I do is somebody else's fault, I'm not living my life to the fullest. It's a philosophy I do my best to impart to my patients and students."

"May I ask about that, or would you prefer not to speak of business?" Hannibal asked.

He wasn't worried, but he was always curious.

"You say 'sins we came up with along the way'," Hannibal said. "Sins in a strictly Catholic sense, or a broader one?"

"So are these rules you've dictated?" Hannibal asked. "Or your father? Or are they ones that humans have decided upon themselves?"

"Well, it is named for him," Hannibal pointed out.

Hannibal shrugged. "I would apologize, but I'm not sorry. I love a good pun."

Hannibal didn't think so, but he also wasn't going to argue, so he shrugged. "As you say. So, originally he declared the sins. Others have arisen?"

Hannibal paused. "I don't believe I do, either. Is it worth looking up?"

"Ah." Hannibal nodded. "And that's a sin, is it?"

It seemed rude to him, but he wouldn't have said sinful. Then again, he was possibly the wrong person to ask.

"So it's less about behavior and more about intent." Hannibal smiled. "Don't be terrible to people for no reason."

"Most religions seem to agree on that one," Hannibal noted. "Do you have any interest in or influence on other religions in your world, or merely the Christian ones?"

Hannibal chuckled. "Fair enough." He nodded toward the dishes. "Shall I bring out the next course?"

Hannibal smiled and collected the dishes, then went to the kitchen and brought out the chicken and asparagus, the whole arranged in little fans in opposing directions, the sauce in neat swirls.

"The writer Henry Miller once declared that Hell must be similar to a Paris bistro - a bit overheated, somewhat too crowded, and a little too noisy for his tastes. When asked by a friend how he would feel about his bistro smelling of sulfur, he replied: 'With a good bouillabaisse, a young chicken cooked in tarragon, and a good wine from Bordeaux, not even the smells of Hell will bother me'. Thus the conceit of tonight's dinner, although I should hope my home doesn't smell of sulfur."

Hannibal nodded in thanks as he sat. "More wine?"