But her exile was only temporary, she told herself for the hundredth time as she searched the unfamiliar cupboards of St. Peter’s Rectory, hoping that something would materialize for her lunch. She also reminded herself that her exile was of her own making, and that she had no real cause for complaint. When her old friend and theological college mentor, Roberta Smith, had developed asthma so severe that her doctor ordered her to leave the city for a few months, Winnie had suggested that they swap parishes.

At the time it had seemed the right thing to do, as if God had offered her an opportunity to serve too obvious to refuse, but now she wondered if it had been merely her ego jumping at a chance to be seen as a rescuer - St. Winnie saves the day. And so she had abandoned her husband of less than a year, as well as others at home and in her parish who depended on her, to minister to what she had imagined as the poor and huddled masses.

Instead, she found a fairly comfortable and disinterested parish, the same round of bureaucratic meetings she’d left behind, and an ache of homesickness and longing for Jack that plagued her like a missing organ.

Well, there was nothing for it now but to get on with things, she chided herself as she rooted out a tin of tuna from the cupboard shelf and checked its use-by date. Too much self-examination smacked of self-absorption and was unproductive to boot – and her situation did have its compensations.

The rectory, a flat in Mitre Road across from St. Peter’s Church, was cozy, filled with the bright wall hangings and artifacts Roberta had collected on her trips to Africa and Asia. Southwark Cathedral was only a few streets away, and Winnie found the frequent exposure to cathedral life both fascinating and moving.