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that family and friends envied and admired. He had supposed he’d be a woodworker like his father, but then came The Guard. As their Heart, there was suddenly too much love, goodness and wonder within him to possibly contain; he’d had to give it to others—as many others as he possibly could—or it would overcome him with its intensity.
    The church had been the obvious choice, and he’d pursued a level within the hierarchy that maintained autonomy and a bit of flexibility, so as not to conflict with outside work, his
Grand
Work. The vicar duties of guest preaching, visits to shut-ins, infirmary patients and children of orphanages had quite served his need. Now, however, the Grand Work was gone and Michael feared for his faith. They’d been inextricably tied.
    Of course, duty was duty, and he could hardly explain to his superiors that he was suddenly unfit for his position; the guiding force he’d lost had been an ancient power that in the church’s eyes might appear more than a bit pagan. He doubted the children would care even if he was pagan, and he hoped they wouldn’t notice any difference. He still loved them.
    Little Charlie’s condition had worsened overnight, and thenurse who ushered Michael into his tiny room looked grim. Wan light and a worn screen separated the boy from a comatose girl opposite who was wasting away. Michael was ever surprised the girl stayed dreaming, and he prayed those fluttering eyelids housed glorious visions: angels, beauty and joy, all the things little girls ought to be imagining in their blessed young lives.
    Charlie’s sickly face brightened. “Hello, Father!” The children all called him “Father” here, rather than Vicar, and Michael let them use the more Catholic term. He rather liked the familiarity of it, as hearing the word eased the ache of not having children of his own.
    “Hello, Sir Charles. I was told you’ve been fiercely battling a most vile dragon, and I am here to commend you for your bravery!” He looked down at the fine buttons on the lower cuffs of his coat and surreptitiously plucked one free, placing it in the palm of the child. “Your medal of honour, sir. The Queen herself has heard of your service to the Crown, and she declares that even the great St. George holds you in highest esteem.”
    Charlie’s grin took up his entire face, and his shaking yellow hands clutched the proffered button. He gave a salute. “Thank you, my lord Carroll. I accept this honour with a grateful heart and pledge my life to more such battles.” He spoke cheerfully, as if the wheeze in his lungs were no trouble at all, nor the cough that rattled his frame. Michael always found it hard to keep tears at bay here in the sickroom of the orphanage, and it was never so hard as now. He steeled himself to remain strong.
    Not that Charlie was frightened, as were many of the other wards; the boy was shockingly insightful, uncannily intelligent and calm. He cocked his head to the side, and Michael suddenly felt himself being examined much in same the wayMrs. Rychman had examined him the day prior. It was disconcerting.
    His discomfiture was interrupted. The air around him grew frigid, and one by one ghosts wafted through the modest brick walls and hovered behind Charlie’s head. Michael’s heart sank and tears welled up. Surely these spirits came to collect the boy. How God could take such a gifted soul escaped him, unless He was covetous and wanted such dearness closer . . .
    Charlie eyed him with a dawning realization. “Oh! You can see them, too, then.”
    Michael hesitated. It wasn’t something he admitted in public, his ability to see ghosts; it was a Guard’s pledge to keep skills secret. Though their power over spirits was revoked, the ability to see them was not. He could see no harm in admitting so with this child. It would even be a point of commiseration. He nodded, a tear spilling onto his cheek.
    “Don’t cry, Father, it’s not for me that they’ve come.