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called Olive, sidled out of the shadows under the archway and began to rub her rotund sides against the vicar’s ankles. He bent and picked her up. The lazy animal straddled his muscular forearm and let all four legs go limp, nuzzling his hand with her cheeks and purring like a machine. Anne smiled to herself, imagining Reverend Morrell with birds on his shoulders, a squirrel or two at his feet, maybe a lamb in his arms: St. Francis of Wyckerley.
    “What epitaph would you advise, Lady D’Aubrey?” he asked lightly. The shameless cat arched her back voluptuously when he scratched behind her ears.
    “Mmm, something simple and unambiguous, I should think. What you want to avoid is the suggestion that Geoffrey had any actual fondness for his father. ‘Rest in peace’ would probably cover it. Or—in your line of work, I suppose you would prefer ‘
Requiescat in pace
?’” Why was she talking like this? She was almost baiting him—she reminded herself of Geoffrey!
    His fine eyes measured her in that steady, tolerant way which would undoubtedly earn him a place in heaven. She reached up to pet Olive’s head; their fingers touched before Reverend Morrell moved his hand back, out of reach. “When will Geoffrey return?” he asked, ignoring her facetious question.
    “I really couldn’t say. He went to an auction in Exeter to buy a horse. I thought he might have mentioned it to you.”
    “No, he didn’t, but I’ve been away myself.”
    “Tending to your flock in the nether regions?” Now, that really was too much. She bit her lip. “I beg your pardon, I’m not fit for company tonight. It’s—I have a headache,” she fabricated, “and that always makes me insufferable. Don’t pay any attention to me.”
    “Is there anything I can do to help you?” The gentleness in his voice alarmed her, but not as much as the understanding in his eyes. The last thing she wanted was to be understood by Christian Morrell.
    “Not unless you’re a physician as well as a priest,” she said shortly. “Thank you for your concern, but I assure you my ailment is physical, not moral. At least for the time being.”
    He set Olive on her feet carefully and straightened. “I’m sorry. I won’t keep you any longer.”
    Immediately she regretted her words—again—but she had no hope of detaining him now. And why would she want to, really? Her ambivalence was making her tired. “Good night, Reverend. I’ll tell Geoffrey you came. If some sentimental fit seizes him and he decides he wants something kindhearted chiseled on his father’s stone”—even now, she couldn’t shake off this childish sarcasm—“I’m sure he’ll let you know.”
    “I’m sure.” He made her a slow, deliberate bow—she’d have called it an ironic bow, except she didn’t think irony was in the vicar’s straightforward lexicon—and left her in the darkness.
    ***
     . . . “Is there anything I can do to help you?” he asked me. Which means he believes I need help. God, I hate that, loathe the thought of him feeling sorry for me! It’s why I sent him away, wanted him gone, wasn’t even polite to him. Now I’m paying for the mortal sin of rudeness, because I’m alone again. And tonight is one of those nights when solitude is absolute hell.

IV
    M ISS S OPHIE D EENE was leading the children’s choir in the second verse of “O Sons and Daughters, Let Us Sing!”
    That Easter morn at break of day,
    The faithful women went their way
    To seek the tomb where Jesus lay.
    Alleluia!
    The shrill but sweet voices filled the church, which was packed this Easter morning, and brought smiles to the faces of many in the congregation, anxious or indulgent depending on the hearer’s relationship to the little choristers. Miss Deene herself, pretty in a flowered blue frock and a little white jacket, was looking happier and more relaxed with every chorus, and Reverend Morrell recalled how worried she’d been all week about her debut as precentor of the