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The next few weeks were a study in contrasts, from frustration and relief (careful where you go with that) to hectic and calm. I announced my guardianship at both Sunday masses, receiving a positive response from the vast majority of the congregation. Fletcher concealed himself behind the curtain leading to the vestry, witnessing his first welcoming. He had learned, from prior Eucharistic services, to withdraw further back into the vestry during the Receiving of the Host, as it would be easy for a celebrant to glance over to see him there. He had told me that he'd felt it cowardly; I had helped him to see that it was never cowardly to protect one's heart. The young wolf simply wasn't ready yet, and there was certainly no shame or cowardice in that.

Perhaps the most amusing part of revealing my new status to the congregation was the number of elder females who took a sudden and particular interest in "the needs of a growing yowen" and, so thinking, began bringing any number of cakes, pies, casseroles, gift cards, and hopes that they might one day introduce him to "some fine young females" who might make "good companions" for him. All of this was born of a good Christian conscience, a bit of matronly meddling, and the hope of being the first to catch a glimpse of the young wolf. Once again, Mrs. Whitson proved invaluable, graciously accepting the gifts, praising and thanking each provider, and helping Fletcher stay carefully concealed. He was nervous about having become so interesting to others, but quickly enough, he began to consider it a game. Never let it be said that an old female is not a worthy opponent -- visits were carefully timed to coincide with mealtimes and early evenings when, "if the vicar isn't too busy", perhaps they could step in for just a moment? Alas for them, I was always just about to do something frightfully important. None tried to knock on the door in the middle of the night, but I admit that I wouldn't have put it past them, bless their inquisitive hearts (and yes, Lord, albeit with a wry smile, I do mean it).

Part of the game, during that first week, included finding a way of sneaking past well-meaning visitors so that I could show to Fletcher the rest of the buildings that were part of the church's holdings. I wanted to help him feel more comfortable being outside of the walls of the vicarage. After what might have been years of confinement, he was only slowly learning how to feel safe outside of an enclosure, whether his prison or his home.

I started with the rec hall. It's a Quonset hut-like structure, the gift of both the federal government (WPA -- long before my time) and local benefactors. With the admonition that it be available to the neighborhood in general, regardless of affiliation to the church, we had a full-sized basketball court, changing rooms with showers, a small but serviceable equipment room, and a meeting room with an outside entrance that enabled it to be used for voting booths during elections. Over the years, another, more general-purpose annex had been built for voting, meetings, and so forth; the once-ago meeting room had since been turned into a weight room. I had the impression that the young wolf found the idea interesting. Safely behind locked doors, we took the time to shoot some baskets together and enjoy a space larger than he'd had access to for many a long year. He tired a little quickly, which worried him; I simply saw it as more reason for us to spend more time there. Certainly I had need of working off a bit of Mrs. Whitson's fine cooking.

The general annex was the other main building on the grounds. It had been named after the wealthy German Shepherd who had provided about 60% of the funding -- Wilfred Olson Pegglesby-Rosenbaum. When in need of repairs, the building's name was used in full, spoken with all reverence. In everyday usage, the initials became pronounced "WOPPER"; I promised Fletcher I'd show him the movie that the nickname came from. It was here that the small children's library was kept. I found that we did indeed have some titles that the young wolf recalled from his puphood, including More Bears! and The Interrupting Chicken. He felt them a bit juvenile for him now, but he admitted that they were still fun. I got a laugh out of him when I tried wrapping my otherwise-talented Dalmatian's tongue around Fox in Socks.

Our last visit that evening was to the church. Entering through the back doors into the vestry, I checked to make sure we were alone, then took him through the curtains and into the sanctuary itself. He had seen much from his hassock perch, but actually setting paw inside was very different. St. Christopher's is not a cathedral by any means, although we do have some very nice architecture for a comparatively small church. The young wolf wasn't precisely awestruck, but he did confess to some nervousness.

"Why nervous?" I asked him.

"You bring God here," he said, then laughed at himself a little. "Not quite what I mean."

"Can you tell me what you're feeling? You tell me, then I'll tell you what I feel when I'm here."

He was silent for a long time, looking at the altar, the nave, the pews, the recessed space for the self-contained Hammond organ and tiers for the choir to stand, the peaceful, darkened alcove with the votive candles, some few still burning. He took in the rows of pews, empty and patiently waiting. "Heard churches called God's house. Always wondered, when I was young, which house he was living in every Sunday; couldn't be all of them, right?" He grinned at me, or perhaps at his younger self who didn't know how to reconcile that strange idea. "Always thought that a priest brings God into the church, I guess. Then thought about the idea of home. God's house. It does feel like someone lives here, and that I'm a guest. I should behave well here. It's a big house, and I'm not sure that I could live here, but I feel like it's okay for me to visit. Like God doesn't mind. Maybe even likes it, likes that I'm here, and He wants me to feel comfortable. Safe."

I nodded. "I feel safe here, too. Comforted. Even when I'm troubled, I feel like I can come here, listen to my spirit, maybe even hear God... a little bit. Not like a voice, more like... like a loving paw to my heart. I feel like God can hear me, when I'm here. I think He could hear me wherever I happened to be, but here in particular."

Fletcher looked into my eyes. "God can hear me here?" he whispered.

"I believe that, yes. I believe that, if you want to talk to God, he will hear you, even if you're not in church, even if you don't say the words out loud. Is there something you'd like to say to Him?"

"Like your Office? Do I need special words?"

"Your own words are the most special of all. Say what's in your heart, words that you mean the most. I believe God will hear them."

Looking around himself again, he finally let his eyes rest upon the crucifix that hung above the altar. I'd spoken little to him of the symbols and trappings of the church; he clearly had seen them in his puphood, as they weren't unfamiliar. I doubt that he'd had much formal training or studied any catechism, and like most, he looked to the dying Savior on the cross as if he should address his words there. He turned back to me, his cobalt blue eyes full and deep with the message he was forming in words. He placed his forepaw to my chest, then looked back to the crucifix.

"I love him," he said. "Please... keep him safe."

I turned the young wolf to me, took him into my arms, hugged him tightly. He hugged me back, there before the altar, and I whispered into his ear, "I love you, too, Fletcher."

"Do you think He heard me?" he whispered back.

"I'm sure of it, sweet wolf. I'm absolutely sure of it."

After a short pause, he said, "Then He heard you, too."

"Exactly how I want it, my angel."

* * * * * * * * * *

As Thad Whitlock had predicted, the 90-day extension of my emergency custody of Fletcher was indeed a slam-dunk. ("Benefits of clean living," I joked with him, when he called.) Despite the tendency of a bureaucracy to move at a rate one could only describe as glacial, emergency custodies were, by their nature, handled quickly. Considering how much of our lives were fodder for one Internet site or another, gathering the preliminary information was all but an hour's work. Nothing in my past was noteworthy, much less criminal, and interviewing various people in my life provided the State with a reasonable ability to assess my character to a basic degree. Now would come the microscopes and fine-toothed combs, in-depth interviews, and reports from (forgive the phrase) God only knew how many experts and specialists. I considered it a particular blessing that the social worker, Esperanza Mercier, had elected to take our side in the legal battles; had she been against us, there would have been quite a fight on our paws.

As summer grew closer on the calendar, Fletcher teased me by saying that he was looking forward to vacation from school. The scamp was joking, for many reasons. Although it was no vacation, Othertime had taken from him years of opportunity to learn. One may speak of a hunger for knowledge, but the truth was more like the pup being ravenous; he studied home-learning and school texts for longer each day than he'd have spent in most classrooms, and he never once complained of boredom or overwork. Wyatt brought some practice tests for sixth grade history, general science, and math, to see how he was progressing over the time he'd been studying. I think even our young wolf was surprised at how well he'd fared. It was possible that he and we had underestimated just when he had entered Othertime. We also began to speak, quite gently, about more formal tutoring or even readying for school in fall. The black Irish wolfhound, as a librarian, knew the librarians at all the local schools; the middle school librarian would no doubt put Wyatt in touch with the counselor there to find out what might be required to register. We could see that the idea both interested and frightened Fletcher, since it meant being around so many people again. As he and I had discussed earlier, he had liked school before; it was less that he didn't know how to comport himself in public than it was that he was out of practice. As it was, he had months yet, and he reaffirmed his idea to start meeting people and trusting himself around them. That gave us an idea.

After a careful discussion with Fletcher, he agreed to have Wyatt and Leif pick us up in their car and take us to a wonderful ice cream stand that had reopened for the upcoming summer season. Being out in the world was made a little safer by having us sit in the back seat of the spacious, older-model Cadillac, while Wyatt drove and Leif pointed out various places to the young wolf's wide, wonder-filled eyes. All the windows were open, and our friends let me and Fletcher remain in the car while they went to get our treats. A little quizzing brought out some of the yowen's favorite flavors, and he and I ended up sharing a banana split -- his first-ever, and my third-ever. (He could probably have finished it on his own, but he was good enough to let me have as much as I wished. It was pretty close to halvsies.) The four of us enjoyed music from a fine sound system, great treats, and wonderful company. In deference to the possibility of prying eyes, the wolf and I sat a little distance apart and held forepaws, out of sight, like a courting couple. I think that seeing the passing world and feeling the breeze through the open windows did a lot to get Fletcher to think more kindly about being out in public again.

My love of the pup grew and deepened over time which, like most things, had its good and bad aspects. I had been both wrong and right about the young wolf's enthusiasm for self-pleasure. Wednesday nights in particular had become a special favorite for both of us. On those occasions, we could remain joyously undressed, and the "special towel" could remain carelessly tossed upon the floor until morning, all without shocking our much-loved housekeeper. On other nights, Fletcher made sure that we "tidied up" (as it were) to be presentable the next morning. It didn't happen every night, however, and it surprised me to feel that, in some ways, I was a bit disappointed by that. I felt much better when I discovered that he had found time and privacy for himself alone to do the deed. He told me he far preferred that he be with me, as it felt better to share the feelings with me. I couldn't disagree, but his actions told me that he was gaining yet more control over his feelings and memories -- Othertime was holding less and less power over him. That, even more than my somewhat selfish desires, made me feel particularly good.

I wasn't entirely without my temptations, however, and I found myself thinking more and more about how long I could go on resisting my desire for the young wolf. "My" young wolf, as I called him in my thoughts, perhaps more possessively than was strictly healthy. I was still able to love him well and in "the right way," but I also found myself feeling an ache such as I'd not had since my solitary day of sweet lovemaking with Philip, and my years with Merrill so long before that. In the past weeks, I'd found privacy enough to (as the saying has it) take myself in paw, but it was insufficient to what I truly needed. I considered the notion of having Fletcher hold me as I held him, neither of us touching the other where we shouldn't, but the very notion of "shouldn't" soured the whole idea for me. It was different for Fletcher. For him, it had been a carefully contrived means of helping him gain some freedom from the horrors of Othertime, to help him discover himself for himself, to give him love and safety to associate with actions which, not long ago, had been part of an ongoing horror. I had no such nicety of explanation, no such consolation from fear. I had nothing but my memories and my longing... and the realization that, when physical love was so near yet so far, celibacy was its own form of Hell.

I needed counseling, understanding, reconciliation. Apart from Fletcher, there were only two people that I could talk to, and only one was available that early afternoon. I lunched with Fletcher, who asked yet again if I was all right, as he'd done every day for the last several weeks. I told him that I would talk to him about it that night. It was Wednesday, and I sensed that the young wolf had a special longing for me; I would have to find a way to talk to him about it, whatever my decision. I told him that I was going to visit Wyatt at the library, and he hugged me and told me to pass it along, and that he'd have more hugs for me later. I found myself longing for them and dreading them at the same time.

I met with Wyatt in his office at the library to talk over a few things. "Th' yowen's on his own t'day?" the black Irish asked me.

"If Mrs. Whitson's not keeping him busy, I suspect he's reading, or maybe watching those James Burke DVDs you found. He's absolutely in love with those."

"An' wi' good reason! Burke makes everythin' fascinatin'." He looked at me carefully for a long moment, and then he gave me a gentle smile. "Do I need t' kiss th' scapular an' ask God t' help ye make a good confession?"

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"Sure an' that's what I did t' me own priests, behind th' grille."

"I don't doubt it for a minute." I took a breath and started with the slightly safer topic, that being how Fletcher had begun being able to take his own release from time to time. A few weeks ago, I had told Wyatt of what he called "his favorite sacred loophole"; he had asked, on that occasion, if the young wolf would mind "lending me out" from time to time. Leif, it appeared would not have minded joining in, and it gave us a laugh, in spite of everything. Now, it wasn't so funny. Unwilling to get too close to the real reason for my visit, I let myself grow quiet. Wyatt didn't let it go on too long.

"Yer hurtin', Graham," the black Irish said without warning or preamble, cutting through to the point. "I'd wondered when yer'd come t' me with it. I wish ye'd nay have waited s' long."

I put my forepaws to my face for a moment, as if trying to rub away some sort of guilt that I felt forming in my expression. Taking a deep breath, I returned my paws to my lap and faced him. "I don't think I can keep doing this, Wyatt. I'm frightening myself with these emotions, these daydreams and desires for him. It's not right. I've no idea how old he is, for a start. And I'm already just short of breaking my vows, my solemn promises, not to mention the laws of the land. It's not right for me to want him like this."

"It's nae right fer ye t' have feelin's, is that wha' yer tellin' me?"

"It's not right to give in to them."

"Why not?"

"I took a vow, Wyatt."

"T' quote th' famous walrus, how's tha' workin' fer ye?"

The flare of anger told me just how close to the surface my feelings really were. I managed to calm myself, remembering that I'd come here for help, and that in truth, I knew what the wolfhound was going to say. "Okay," I breathed slowly. "Tell me what I need to hear."

"What ye need t' hear and wha' yer gonna let yerself hear may not be th' same." The librarian leaned back in his chair, regarding me with a warm look that would serve any pastor to bestow upon a troubled parishioner. "I know ye've got yer doubts, Graham, but fer wha' it's worth, I think ye've done yerself and th' pup a great service... no jokes intended. Sophistry perhaps, but I still say ye've kept faith w' all th' rules. More'n that, ye've kept faith w' yer faith. Ye love th' yowen, an' what ye've done proves it. From what ye tell me, he was terrified, and ye kept him safe, brought him out o' a very bad place. Ye gave him a gift tha' most yowens get t' find pleasurably on their own, tha' he dinna get t' find on his own. And now yer wonderin' if ye dare gi'e a gift back t' yerself."

I blinked at him.

"Th' yowen, yes, but more'n that, yer tryin' t' gi'e yerself back t' yerself. Yer a fine furson, Graham Darden, as I've said o' ye before. Ye've done all ye should, and ye've never gi'en less than all yerself t' whate'er or whoe'er needs yer. Now's come th' time when ye need yerself. Are ye gonna listen t' yerself?"

"I think I should be listening to God."

"An' when did He e'er say, 'Abandon yerself'?" The black Irish leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine. "God is Love, or dinna ye nay hear tha' part o' the litany?"

"But not like this!"

"Like what? Like a grown, thinkin', feelin' male who lost his lover an' gave himself t' God? Are ye sayin' ye did that t' give up yerself? Or did ye do it t' give of yerself?" Wyatt's voice grew low and quiet. "Ye've worried abou' yer vows, ye tell me. Ye gave yerself t' God, ye tell me. Do ye think so little o' God tha' ye'd give Him anythin' less than yer best self?"

I felt myself grow small in my chair, as if I were diminished in size as well as heart. My heart pounded, my head swam, and I sensed tears forming in my tired, half-lidded eyes.

"Graham," the wolfhound whispered. "I'm nay a priest. I'm just a mortal male who's made th' choice t' love, t' love true, t' love proud an' free. Set yer love free, pup. Tha's wha's right in this world."

"What if I did? What would God say about that?"

"Ask Him."

* * * * * * * * * *

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them thence, so sweet is zealous contemplation.

I'd no idea why that particular drop of Shakespeare came up for me, particularly since I didn't feel either holy or devout. My talk with Wyatt hadn't gone the way I wanted... no, that wasn't true. It didn't go the way that I thought that it should. I held my prayer beads without counting them, too fraught with emotional upheaval to pay attention as I knew that I should. I was also very much aware that "should" was taking up far too much of my mental space at this point. In one of his more outspoken moods, my old Zen teacher would remind me that "should" sounds like "shit" for a reason.

I looked up from my place there at the church altar and cast up a brief apology for the vulgarity. While I was at it, I apologized for my lack of concentration, my momentary questioning of faith, and my continued worry over what I was thinking and feeling. My prayer of thanks for Wyatt was in no way stinted; despite his opinions -- or perhaps because of them -- it was important that I quit denying what I was feeling and face the emotions head-on. Doing that was the issue, and I wasn't at all sure that I was up to the task.

Wyatt was a self-described rake, so there really was no doubt what his opinion would be. Although he was sleeping after a night shift, Leif would no doubt have taken a similar position... as it were. I kept having the jokes in my head, but I wasn't sure if joking was what I needed to be doing. I knew what I wanted, what I craved, and I wasn't sure that it was right. All the rules said no, and my heart screamed yes, and I was afraid that I couldn't hear God's voice amid the clamor. How was I to choose...

How... you choose?

I nearly wept. Fletcher's voice in my head. I realized how glib I'd been, telling him to try something, see how it felt, change if needed. What I wanted wasn't something that could be changed if it went wrong. It wasn't the commitment to him that I feared; it was knowing how it would affect the young wolf, what it would mean to both of us, and whether or not I would hurt him. Was it enough simply to love him, or was I asking too much? He had shown me more than once his own need, but my needs... I was supposed to be the adult here, and I couldn't even take my own guidance, much less God's.

A sound attracted my attention, and I steeled myself, adding one more apology for the emotion of wishing whoever it was would just go away. I crossed myself properly, working to put my muzzle in order, and kissed the beads as a momentary closure against my uncertainty. Rising from the altar, I turned, surprised to see Mrs. Whitson standing near, her forepaws folded neatly before her, her dark eyes filled with concern.

"Mrs. Whitson, are you all right?"

"Fine, Reverend Graham."

"Fletcher?"

"Momentarily enthralled with a video, I think."

I felt my eyebrows come together in perplexity. "I don't usually see you here in mid-afternoon."

"The same might be said, Reverend." The red panda paused, considering her words. "I don't want to put my muzzle where it oughtn't be. I'm just worried about you."

"Worried?"

"The last time that I saw you like this was something over a year ago. I didn't know what had come over you, and I didn't think it my place to ask. You're entitled to your privacy. I had wondered, at first, if it were something to do with the passing of your husband all that long ago. It was like you were grieving for something, or someone, and it tore my heart in two to see it." She paused, looking at me carefully. "I'll leave you be, if you'd rather, but I'd ask you to consider something: Whatever's ailing you, Fletcher is bound to see it. He's already seen it, and he's worrying over you. He loves you too well not to."

Whatever response I might have intended, whatever filter I might have put on my muzzle, all faded before Mrs. Whitson's steady, benevolent gaze. I hadn't realized that I was starting to shake until she padded up to me and guided me to the front pew to sit down. I managed not to start crying, because I feared that I might never stop. The firefox sat down with me, placing a forepaw to my shoulder, waiting quietly for me to regain myself. The sanctuary was silent around us, although I had no idea how long it might remain so.

"Not to take your job away," she jested softly, "but I'm a pretty good listener too."

I took a deep breath, hung my head as I exhaled. "I'm too ashamed to tell you."

"Have you done something shameful, Reverend?"

"Perhaps."

"Something you feel shame over, or something that has hurt someone?"

Looking up at her, I let my eyes ask the question.

"We sometimes feel shame when it's not necessary, especially if it's feelings rather than actions. I saw a movie once, where God supposedly said that He didn't know why He thought we needed shame."

I managed a cough of amusement. "I love that film. Always made a lot of sense to me."

"Bad religion, good theology. They don't always go paw-in-paw."

"Why, Mrs. Whitson," I managed to smile. "You're a philosopher."

"Knowing one's catechism should not mean that one stops thinking, Reverend." She smiled softly at me. "It's why I'm glad that Fletcher seems to enjoy the mass, but you're not insisting that he take instruction. I'm glad that you discourage having yowens brought into the ceremonies too soon. They could only go through the motions, not really understand."

Her last words echoed in my head. "How do we know when a yowen is ready to understand?"

"I'd say that depends upon what he's expected to understand. Cleaning up his room, doing homework, playing well with others... those can come along at a fairly early age. Understand his place at school or in groups... that can take a little time to make work, if only because they're complicated by being with others who, at that age, are also trying to figure it out. And then come other changes..." She paused. The look she gave me was not sly, but it was knowing. "That's when a yowen starts to know what it means to say 'I am me', and to discover what rights, privileges, and responsibilities that entails. It's when he begins to know what it is that he truly wants, when he starts to make choices that we call 'adult' choices. That's when a yowen most needs very careful guidance. Loving guidance."

"I don't know what that means anymore."

"Yes, you do." The firefox squeezed my shoulder. "Reverend Graham, let's talk specifics. This about Fletcher, of course?"

Not quite of my own will, I managed to nod.

"Are you worried about being a foster sire?"

Looking deep within, I found the truth. "No. It's not that."

She squeezed my shoulder again. "You're afraid that you can't let it stop there."

I crumpled down, trying not to whimper. "Oh God, what you must think of me."

"Let me be the one to say what I think." She put an arm around my shoulder and squeezed me tightly. "I think you're one of the finest males I've ever met. You have a fine mind, a strong education, powerful experience that allows you a kind way with your parishioners, good taste in friends, and excellent taste in housekeepers."

Something between a chuckle and a sob escaped me.

"You're a gay male still young enough to remember the love of your husband. You have made promises, taken vows, that you hold firmly and devoutly, even when you fear that you are somehow turning against you. Forgive me for telling you your job, Reverend, but you greatest vow is to the God of all light and love, to the Savior who experienced your worldly suffering, and for the Spirit that bridges the two from this life to eternal peace. You are part of that most sacred bridge, Reverend Graham, because that is the most sacred vow that you took."

She pet my headfur tenderly. "You took other vows as well, but not for the sake of self-torture. And if you'll forgive an old female her possibly heathen two cents, those other vows were made by males as mortal as you, and that's why they get in your way sometimes. And besides, your vows are for continence, not chastity. It's not lust you fear, because it's not lust that calls you. You're talking with an attractive young wolf about the changes in his body, about things that were done that could scar him forever if he doesn't have a way of seeing past those horrors. I know that you sleep with him, sharing just sleep, and it was proper then, and it's proper now. You've not molested or hurt him."

"How can you know that?" I mumbled.

"Because he wouldn't be happy if you did. He wouldn't smile at you, come back to you, trust you. If you were behaving as his captor did, he might do what you ask, but not with the joy that I see in him. He's a healthy yowen who is happily discovering himself and his life again. You've done wonders, Reverend Graham. I'll be selfish enough to think I've helped, but it's you he loves so truly and deeply."

"But what if I were to--"

"I know what I see," the firefox said firmly. "And what I don't see, I don't know about. And that's how it should be."

Slowly, I raised my head to look up into her face. I wasn't entirely sure what it was that I saw there, but it wasn't mischief, and it wasn't malevolence. There in the sanctuary, I echoed Fletcher's words with every ounce of truth inside me. "I love him," I said softly.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "And he loves you. Reverend, I meant what I said about standing proudly at your wedding, should that be what you both want. It's not often that I get to see such powerful emotion between any two furs, and I feel that there's little enough love in the world as it is. I've seen the photos you have of yourself and Merrill. I don't know if lightning is supposed to strike twice, but I think we'd be fools to deny the possibility."

I paused. "And if we do get married one day?"

"I will celebrate with you and knock carefully upon your door before entering with morning tea. Or whatever other arrangement we wish to create. I've waited on married vicars before."

Managing a small smile, I asked, "Any who were courting?"

"Very discreet, they were." After a pause, she gave my shoulders another squeeze and pulled back from me a little. "Reverend, I do all I can to let God take care of the judgments in this world and in the next. Sins may be considered venal or mortal, and evils that are done to one another are no doubt tallied somewhere, and the Lord or Karma or whatever will determine what needs atonement. The only thing that I truly can't abide is the abuse such as Fletcher has endured, and I'll do whatever I can to prevent it, and in our young wolf's case, I'll do whatever is best for him to help him become whole, happy, and loved the way he deserves to be loved.

"And you, Reverend Graham, feel the same. That's why you want to be his foster sire, and you deserve to be. And you will be. When that legal necessity is dealt with and discharged, you and he may continue in whatever way you wish, and the law, civil or canonical, can say nothing. In the meantime, I know that you will love him well and never in any way abuse him. All that I can see will attest to that." She paused, a small smile upon her own muzzle. "I'm willing to wager that Mr. Wyatt told you the same, did he not? And Mr. Leif?"

"Leif wasn't there, but if I were to ask him, I imagine he'd say the same, yes."

"And that they, for their part, were willing to keep the pup's education theoretical rather than practical?"

I think God Himself would have smacked me if I hadn't chuckled at that one. "Correct."

"Then I seem to be part of a conspiracy to commit love in the first degree. Gladly, there are no witnesses, nor any evidence other than the happiness of a certain young wolf who very much deserves it. The same may be said for the incumbent of this church." Mrs. Whitson looked at me softly. "In a world where so many seem eager to learn everything about everyone else, there is something to be said for the simple right to privacy. No secrets, Reverend Graham, does not mean no privacy."

The moment stretched a little, and I said, "Permission to hug, ma'am?"

The red panda laughed softly and put her arms around me, as I put mine around her and held her close. I squeezed out a couple of tears that I was holding back. With her muzzle close to my ear, she whispered, "Honored to serve you, Reverend Graham. C'mon, let's get you back to the vicarage. I think you may have some work to do... and someone to talk to."

I didn't disagree.

We rose together and went back to the vestry through the curtains. Mrs. Whitson was amused by the low hassock near them, seeing at last the way that Fletcher had been able to watch me celebrate masses in comparative secrecy. I pointed out to her where he had hugged me that first day and told me that he had seen an angel. The firefox, standing near to the hassock, looked at me, then smiled. "There's an angel on your shoulder, Reverend."

I felt my brows cross, and I turned around. A shelf unit that had seen better days had been painted, sanded, painted again, decorated with stickers, and ultimately left to do its best to hold whatever was needed. The top of it was just below the top of my own head, and there, perched precariously near the edge, I saw an angel of the sort usually adorning the tops of Christmas trees. Her light blue dress was faded, the once-fluffy white cotton meant to represent the white fur of her mantle was more than a little bedraggled, and the stiff wire that held up her halo from behind was tipped considerably to one side. Her wings were stiff, feathers represented by white felt that had grown dingy with time and dust. Through these ravages of time, her china-doll face had not changed a whit, and on her shapely muzzle a beatific smile, gently mysterious but promising benevolence, forgiveness, welcoming. She still carried her plastic candle in one tiny forepaw, her guiding light welcoming any who had prayed for a tiny star of hope.

"My angel," I whispered. I turned back to my housekeeper. "That day... I called him..."

The red panda took my forepaw, smiling. "Yes," she said. "And you were right." She cupped my cheek, patting it gently. "A little faith, Reverend. A little faith in a lost angel."