Now the accommodating-looking upholstered pieces sported a cheery red-and-blue William Morris print, a thick rug covered the floorboards, and the wood fire burning in the hearth winked from the leaded-glass windows. All in all it was a delightful room, seductive in its comfort, and Adam thought of his Cambridge rectory with a shiver of regret. He went to the fire and warmed his hands as he watched Nathan pour their drinks from a bottle of the Macallan on the sideboard. “A great improvement over the old electric fire,” he said as Nathan handed him his glass. “Cheers.”

Nathan laughed as he settled himself into one of the chairs near the fire. “I’m surprised you remember that. It was a bit feeble, wasn’t it?” Stretching his legs out towards the warmth, he sipped his drink. “My parents had the central heating put in, of course, but it was only allowed on for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening. I suppose it did make bathing and getting in and out of bed bearable, but the rest of the time we huddled in here in front of that silly electric bar. The chimney always worked, you know, but once they’d made up their minds that the electric fire was less costly to run, there was no going back.” He shook his head. “I don’t think they ever recovered from the war, or stopped fearing that the hard times would come again. When I cleared out the larder, I found tins of food as old as I am-my mother hoarded them.”

“I never felt deprived here,” said Adam, leaving the fire and taking a seat in the other armchair. “Your mother was kind to us, and fed us all without complaint, ungrateful louts that we were.”

Nathan smiled. “I’m sure she never thought that.”

“I was sorry to hear about your parents.” Adam reached automatically to adjust his dog collar, then remembered he’d worn mufti instead. He always worried that his clerical garb made people uncomfortable in a social situation-even those, like Nathan, who had known him long before he became a priest. “It must have been difficult for you, so soon after Jean.”