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lifted the jar onto the edge of the table, in the same motion that he drew his heavy coat away. He guiltily noted the little gasp from his host as the object was revealed. He was at least grateful for the fact that she could not see the living eyes staring from the blank hollows where the lamb’s skull itself possessed no true sockets. Without his spectacles, he could not presently see the eyes, either, though he felt their gaze upon him just as strongly.
    Venn noted in his host’s expression of dread a measure of recognition.
    And in fact, she muttered, “ That… ”
    “So your husband showed this to you, then, before he sold it to the man I acquired it from, at Woodbury Fair?”
    “Yes, Father.” The widow averted her eyes from it, sipped from her tea a bit tremulously. “I saw the poor blighted thing when it was still alive. It was only one of the badly formed creatures that were born this past Spring.”
    “There were others, then?” Venn found himself leaning forward more intensely. “How many? And did your husband sell those, as well?”
    “The rest were mercifully born dead. Even more horrid were they than that one, I dare say. One of them didn’t die straight away, in fact, but was mewling so horribly and so…so terribly, unthinkably malformed that my husband slit its throat.”
    “I am sincerely sorry for reminding you of these things, Mrs. Brook.”
    “Our workers thought we were cursed. Several of them even left our employ.” She still wouldn’t look at the head again, lying in its jar like some perverse holy relic. Therefore, she wouldn’t face Father Venn, as well. He was sorry for this, and bundled the object away so that she could once again look in his direction. As soon as she did, he almost regretted it. Regretted having her lovely eyes meet his own. They unnerved him, and he felt a flush of dismay that he should find her so attractive. A recent widow, and he a priest with a vow of celibacy.
    Not that he was certain, any more, about the legitimacy or value of the profession he had owned in life. In life. Venn had to remind himself that, even if his days of being a priest were not truly over, his days of being a mortal man were. This fact shook him out of his moment of uneasy desire.
    “That beast was the cause of some distress to my husband in another way,” the widow disclosed. “One evening he found it in the arms of the Reverend Trendle, just as he was carrying it inside his church. My husband was a brash man.” She lowered her eyes. “And not a God-fearing man, if I may speak so of him. He accused the vicar of stealing the lamb, but the vicar insisted that it had strayed upon the church property. My husband said that the animal was not yet strong enough on its legs to have wandered so far alone, and asked the vicar why he was bringing it into the church, in that case, instead of returning it to him.”
    Venn’s eyebrows drew in toward each other. He nodded very slowly, found himself clasping his hands together in his lap almost painfully. “How did the vicar respond to that?”
    “He said that when he saw the animal’s condition, he had decided to put the thing out of its misery. But my husband, and if I dare say quite rightly, replied that it was not for the vicar to take upon himself, however kind his intentions. So my husband went to the vicar and tore the poor beast straight out of his arms, as he was proud to relate to me later.” Ashamed, in a subdued voice the widow said to Venn, as if he were her confessor, “My husband was overly fond of his drink, Father.”
    “So there was much conflict between your husband and the vicar, then?
    Were there more incidents between them?”
    “My husband was an atheist, Father, and forbade me from attending church myself—though I assure you I am a Christian.” She added this with emphasis in her wide, onyx eyes. “He and the vicar did indeed exchange unfriendly words on a number of occasions. It was unfortunate that two men of