Clare had lost track of the players. "Honey?"

"That's her christened name. She changed it to Hadley when she was in her teens."

I can see why.

"Anyhow, I was just checkin' to see if you wanted me to get you a fire goin'."

Clare looked at her hearth, the best thing about her mid-nineteenth-century office. On cold winter days, she could warm herself in front of its brick and iron surround. Now it lay dark and ashy. There was a metaphor there for her life, but she was too flat to pursue it. "I don't think so, Mr. Hadley. I'm leaving for an ecumenical lunch in Saratoga soon."

" 'Kay. I'll stock your wood up some, though. S'posed to be colder'n a Norwegian well digger's you-know-what the rest of this week." He withdrew, leaving the scent of lemon and tobacco to mark his passing. She heard him addressing someone in the hall-" 'Lo, Father"-and was therefore unsurprised when her lunch date appeared in her doorway a half hour early, tall and gaunt and hunched forward like a fastidious vulture.

"Father Aberforth." She got up from her desk to greet the elderly deacon, best known as the bishop's hatchet man.

"Ms. Fergusson." He surprised her by trapping her hand within his much larger ones. He studied her with his penetrating black eyes. "How are you?" he asked. It was not a pleasantry.

"I'm sorry. Were we doing a session today?" The diocesan deacon had fallen into the role of her counselor and confessor. It was not a comfortable relationship. Their talks were like scalding showers: cleansing but painful.