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A routine can be comforting, as long as one doesn't let it suck out the joy of spontaneity, surprise, and the occasional dedication of some time for just plain goofing-off. Fletcher had already helped me immensely by encouraging our checking in with one another through the day, to share a hug and a few minutes of reconnecting. It worked well since we both more or less "worked from home." Being a vicar is very definitely a full-time job, not just a few hours a week leading services. Being a knowledge-hungry young wolf who was studying and meeting with three different tutors, each on a different day of the week for a few hours, was also a job, and one that Fletcher seemed to be reveling and thriving in. The more formal (standardized) testing for sixth grade aptitude showed that what was needed wasn't a full year of sixth grade but more like a shoring up of knowledge and skills that would make it reasonable for him to start seventh grade in late August, along with his friends. Once the pup had begun to see tests not as judgments but as benchmarks, he found it more of a game to try to learn more so that he could do better on them. Study and games with his friends made for a very busy summer.

Wednesday nights, of course, we kept our calendars clear. We also tended to keep Thursday mornings free from other appointments as well. It just made sense, after all; we had to get at least a_little_ sleep in there somewhere. We continued discovering more and more about one another (not just in that way), and above all else, we shared a tenderness of spirit that made me feel renewed from tip to tail. Fletcher, in my eyes at least, seemed to be no less emboldened. If the pup is sire to the adult, I can say with all conviction that he would be exemplary.

All this is to say that we did indeed tend to lose track of time a little during those... oh hell, I'll prove I'm older than I seem -- those lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer. There. Go look up that ancient bit of popular song, I dare you. See if you find it as corny as I did, even though I'm over a decade younger than its premier. My sire and dam loved Nat King Cole. So sue me.

The various bits of "legal stuff" (as Thad Whitlock put it, in his precise way) continued largely unheeded by us. The three teachers who tutored Fletcher became our friends, with no prejudice attached for the young wolf's schooling; the system divided the schools into elementary (1-6), middle (7-9), and high (10-12), so my pup's tutors had no conflict of interest. All three volunteered to be character witnesses on my behalf, in relation to the formal adoption process, so I'm guessing I made a good impression on them.

The English tutor, Elias Moffet, was just as Wyatt had described him -- a handsome tiger of an age similar to mine, blessed with a gift for language and literature, along with the ability to convey it to his charges. I was also able to discover, in a private conversation, that he too was gay and was in the "neither reveal nor conceal" trap that so many teachers find themselves in. I had the impression that he welcomed the chance to make a few new friends of myself, Wyatt, and Leif. It was clear that he knew about Fletcher's abuse at the paws of his biological sire, and he since had been given a much more clear description of Othertime, from Fletcher's own lips. I suspect he was uncertain about the full nature of my and Fletcher's relationship, perhaps even taking a guess at the truth; in whatever case, however, he was very glad that the wolf and I had found each other, and he was quite willing to help our relationship continue.

Miss Sneed and Mrs. Jarvis were knowledgeable, kind, and made a swift bond with our Mrs. Whitson. The red panda was delighted to have both new friends and new subjects upon whom to try out various snacks, cakes, and other such delights. As you might guess, Fletcher and I were no less pleased with the results.

So it was, with all of the various aspects of our lives ticking over quite nicely, that the annual picnic nearly snuck upon us unannounced. Our firefox never let the date slip her mind, however, so she kept both me and Fletcher updated as to both her own contributions and our responsibilities regarding the event. My wolf proved to be an exceptional "double agent," as he gathered information about the other yowens' reactions to the annual picnic, unvarnished and without any holding back. I was relieved to hear that the reviews weren't as bad as I'd feared they might be; I had the feeling that, even though the Anglican church didn't carry over the punishments of penance that seemed to define so much of Catholicism at various times in its history, some of the younger members might have considered the annual picnic to be something of a test of faith.

Fletcher let me know that what the yowens wanted was something like a place at the table, so that they could have some input on the games and events. I've no idea why I didn't think of it before, and come to that, neither had Mrs. Whitson nor the previous incumbent. At one of the planning meetings, several weeks before the event, Fletcher was present, as were Will, Carter, and Xavier. The adults were surprised (although delighted to have the chance to meet my young wolf), but when they realized the purpose of the yowens' presence, they proved quite willing to listen, and did so most respectfully indeed. Everyone got a chance to make comments about games, with a fine old honey badger parishioner waxing nostalgic about the games that he used to play when young, talking about those family picnics that happened long before gizmos and fancy games came into the picture. Carter spoke happily of a few "newfangled" games that sounded fun too, and by the time we were done, we had more than just a list of games to be played but an entire history that spanned generations. For perhaps the first time, my parishioners (and I, for that matter) came to realize what the family picnic was really all about.

I'll admit that, later that night, Fletcher asked me if the Three-Legged Race was actually some type of "bondage thing." He received a proper tickling for that one, and I'm here to tell you that helplessly laughing pups are easy prey for affectionate older dogs. I don't think either of us were complaining.

The other thing about having a routine is that you tend not to notice things that don't actively make changes or disrupt that routine. For my part, I was looking only forward, enjoying the flow of each day, cherishing the warmth of each night, bringing all of that soulful, soul-full sensation to my services. If you take the mass literally, communion is partaking of Jesus and communing with God. We speak of being a "community," yet we so rarely think of what the word means, what its roots are. I looked it up, just to be sure that my liberal arts education hadn't been in vain. It comes from Old French,comuner,_meaning "to share." Over the centuries, the verb has come to mean the sharing of intimate thoughts and feelings, especially in matters spiritual. What I felt during the celebration of mass was a genuine celebration, a feeling of_wanting to share those beautiful feelings in the best way that I could. Pardon the pun: I don't put much faith in faith-healing. I did, however, wonder if the healers of spirit felt something of what poured through me in those fine summer days. I felt that, given the chance, the whole world could feel the abiding passion that I felt, and I would welcome the joy that such feelings bring.

Fletcher was slowly meeting more people in the immediate neighborhood, including one slightly chancy visit to the recovering Mrs. Sudbury. The old kinkajou was to be housebound for at least one more week, although no longer commanded to stay in bed. She was still part of my rounds that week, after which she would probably claim not to want to see me except in church. Some impulse made my young wolf borrow Xavier's bicycle and ride with me that last Friday afternoon of her convalescence, telling me that he wanted to see the "house-call" part of my job. There was no real need for confidentiality or some sort of priestly secrecy, so I trusted my heart (and his), and we pedaled the half-dozen blocks through quiet streets to the female's home.

Having dismissed the nurse as soon as her doctor would allow her (I suspect the nurse was just as happy to leave), the crusty Mrs. Sudbury met us at the door. Her dark eyes opened wide as she saw that I was not alone, and it was easy for her to guess who her other visitor was. As I suspected, she was charmed right down to the tip of her prehensile tail and made a great fuss over the pup. She insisted that we have some tea, and when Fletcher offered to make it ("I'd heard you were a little under the weather," he said, with the utmost delicacy), both made a show of negotiating a compromise that found us at her kitchen table as the wolf made the preparations under her direction. It was good for them both, as Fletcher had no experience with using loose tea, and the kinkajou was happy to instruct him.

Our conversation covered many topics, some to do with the pup's schooling, and the elderly female was clearly impressed with him. She discovered his upcoming ascension to seventh grade before she realized the specifics of that promotion. At that point, she was flabbergasted, convinced that he was a scholastic prodigy and, before he could get a word in edgewise, Fletcher found himself promised books from the kinkajou's large library anytime he needed something. The change in her demeanor was coupled with my discovery that she loved literature as much as the wolf and I did. I also was convinced that her full recovery was shortened by a good week or more for having met the yowen. Far be it from me to suggest that Fletcher become a vicar, but he was good with others, of any age, and I hoped he might find his way into some field that would let him practice his superlative social skills.

Bit by bit, he met others in our neighborhood, including the parents of his friends, nearly all of whom were no less impressed by the young wolf. Fletcher told me of one painful moment, when Will's sire had voiced a negative opinion of what the pup had done to "get himself in such a situation," as the older German shepherd had put it. The sire's pup actually barked a cry at him, and it was Fletcher who put a forepaw to his friend's shoulder and got him to calm down. My wolf told me that he faced the sire evenly enough to apologize for upsetting him and said he would leave. Will's dam would hear of no such thing; she apparently offered a sharp word or two to her own to her mate and asked Fletcher's forgiveness for their comment. There was a brief conversation between her and the yowen, and he told her a very few details of what he was coming to remember. The sire himself apologized then, blamed it on his "saying it badly." He stretched out a tentative forepaw, and they shook on the apology.

Fletcher was cuddled with me in our bed when he told me the story, and he said that he didn't want to make the sire feel any worse, so he just accepted the apology; it didn't seem right to him to make a bigger deal of it. I held him close, told him how proud I was of him, and I meant every word. He cried a little, just for a moment; I wasn't sure if it was from relief, or release, or gratitude for my love of him. Maybe it was just a bit more of those "growing pains" that all of us go through, all our lives -- that sense of learning how to behave well in a world that often didn't pay us the same courtesy.

Leif was particularly happy to hear about the young wolf's forays into the world. "I have to admit, I was a little worried about him getting mobbed at the picnic," the leopard told me privately one evening. "I don't mean physically hurt, of course, but overwhelmed. He had lost all of his socialization skills in Othertime, and I wasn't sure how well he'd do with so many fursons at once."

"He did well with you and Wyatt, to start with," I observed. "I think it's because we all treated him like a valued individual, not as an object."

"That was a good start. We also got him to start thinking, to use his mind, and that was where you really helped him."

"He's a bright yowen; he'd have found his way eventually."

"Nonsense. You make a great duck."

I had no idea what my face must have looked like, but the leopard's whiskers curled up in a grin that looked as if he'd just eaten a few canaries.

"Check your memory banks for 'imprinting'," he teased me. "Fletcher was kept as young as possible in every way, particularly in his mind. He had been broken by his tormentor, infantilized as much as possible. In the end, it was the wolf's growing body that eventually caused that evil bastard to throw him out. You told me the story of how everyone on that bus had ignored him, kept away from him. You didn't. You were the first to acknowledge him, to recognize him as an individual. He imprinted on you as surely as does a newborn of any species imprint upon a familial adult. You were the one who gave him safety, love, and a place to remember who he really is. Who he's supposed to be. He may have done the work, but you're the one who gave him the tools and the workshop. You gave him the confidence to Become." The leopard gazed at me with the deepest affection. "Graham, you truly are his sire."

* * * * * * * * * *

The Saturday of the family picnic began with the usual "get it out of the way" service, although that morning found more fursons attending than usual. It was after the mass that several had stepped up to explain that they were there to help get everything set up in the same spirit as the barn-raisings of the Amish. Many paws made light work, and there a great many paws to help, much to the delight of Mrs. Whitson and the organizers.

I'd said a short and simple homily at the mass, and I repeated the gist of it to get the picnic started. The quote from the rulebook was a short one, from Romans:So we, though many, are one body in Christ, and individually members one of another.

"That was on my mind this year, when I spoke of a real family picnic -- that we really are family, each to each, across the generations. And my own family has grown with Fletcher's presence, and yes, he's here. I think he's waiting for me to hush up and let everyone get the grub!" I grinned, as my comment got laughs, a few whistles and calls, and an overall sense of approval. I waved a paw-signal to our day's DJ for the event and finished up with, "Here comes a surprise to start us off. Welcome, everyone! Let's dig in, and remember..."

Through the loudspeakers came the instantly recognizable strains of the Sister Sledge song, "We Are Family." Laughter redoubled as I heard some folks calling out the word_Birdcage,_ for the film of the same name where the song was heard at the uproarious finale. I knew that it was considered a "gay anthem" by some, but there was no need for such politicizing here. I walked through the small crowd, getting pawshakes and hugs and compliments from those who hung back from the locust-like attack upon the food tables spearheaded by the teens and even younger ones for whom the scents of roasting hot dogs, burgers on the grill, fried chicken, barbecued beef, and fresh-made everything else was too much to resist for a moment longer.

Local grocers and restaurateurs did us proud by providing most of the food at a deep discount to the church, proving yet more generosity by showing up in quantities larger than ordered. Various cooks, including Mrs. Whitson, had made pies, cakes, cookies, and more -- sweets enough for everyone to gain a few pounds with. All who attended donated a bit cash to the cause, and they welcomed some strangers from further downtown who were likely to have been homeless and had no money to donate. No one went hungry on this day's watch, and a few of the vagabonds shared talents in lieu of money, as small groups huddled around guitarist folk-singers and storytellers, as well as an older cougar who had seen better days but who could still teach yowens how to tumble as he used to in his circus days. I'd met him often over the past few years; he was known only as Old Tom, and despite his circumstances, he never had anything but a smile and a kind word for every fur that he came in contact with. I'd heard of others like him, in fact and in fiction, and I could only hope that the stories were true. Every community needs someone like Old Tom, and only the really lucky ones get to have one.

As promised, Fletcher made his appearance shortly after the first wave of hungry folk had gone through the food lines. It was Mrs. Whitson's clever idea, figuring that the young wolf wouldn't get too overwhelmed by numbers since so many would be at tables and blankets on the ground, enjoying their food; those who weren't seated would likely have their paws full with a plate and a cup of lemonade, so they wouldn't be able to hug quite yet. Fletcher played it very well, able to offer a paw or even a hug when he felt comfortable enough. He didn't pretend to be shy, because he actually still felt shy; he managed to overcome most of it and was warmly welcomed by as many of the congregation as had a chance to meet him. In some ways, I was amazed at how well he handled such a crowd. He took short breaks when he needed to, to help counter the sense of being overwhelmed (as he told me later); overall, though, he seemed to be having a great time.

When the games were ready to commence, the honey badger from our picnic committee, Luther Miles, had the honor of explaining some of the "old fashioned" games to the yowens. "We didn't always have a lot of money to spend," he explained with a smile on his muzzle, "so we didn't have these flying discs, or that whaddayacallit, ladder-toss thing? We made do with what we had, like spoons to carry eggs in, or small bags of corn that we'd toss at a slanted board with a hole in it. You wanna know how old I am, yowens? I'm so old..." He paused put a forepaw up to his ear, and he wasn't disappointed.

"How old are you?" most of the congregation called back.

"I'm so old that, when we played horseshoes, we had to make sure we gave 'em back to the horse when we were done!"

The laugh worked well, and he waved an arm to show everyone where we'd set up iron posts for the game. After him, a jowly Italian mastiff by the name of Arturo Ricci narrowly escaped saying that he had brought his own balls to play Bocce with. I caught just the barest twinkle of eye that told me he might have planned it just that way, and I wouldn't have blamed him a bit if he had. The crowd loved it.

Father Garritson, from St. Vincent de Paul's, came by to share the fun, along with two of the nuns who also lived at the Catholic church's rooms for them (quite separate from the small priest's house, of course). Anyone who says that nuns don't know how to have fun should have seen Sister Laura and Sister Agnes, wearing lighter and less restrictive habits than the old "penguin style" clothing, taking their aim at the ladder-toss and all but dancing a jig when they scored a three-pointer by landing a bola on the top rung. Sister Agnes, the older of the two by some years, was no slouch at horseshoes either, much to the dismay of some of the teen males in the crowd. "Hey, no fair prayin'!" one of them teased gently. The nun looked at him with a grin. "I'll never doubt the power of prayer, young kit, but in this game, it's all in the wrist!"

When came the time for the three-legged race, I discovered that Fletcher had conspired with Mrs. Whitson a bit further and got the two of us -- if you'll forgive the obvious joke -- tied together. Our respective height was one issue, and another was which of us would be more able to control the legs that were hitched. The wolf's grin was a mile wide as we stood at the starting line, and when the ref's whistle went off, I realized I'd guessed right. I had them tie my left leg to his right, thinking he'd try to lead off with his dominant paw. That helped us make the first few faltering steps, and then we tried picking up speed, since Xavier and Carter were starting to gain ground nearby. I had the feeling that they'd been practicing, because they were doing quite well. Fletcher caught my eye just enough to send his message, and we went for the gold.

...and promptly tumbled onto the ground in a tangle of legs, arms, and tails. After we realized that we weren't seriously hurt, we both burst into fits of laughter as we heard the crowd around us cheering on those who had remained upright and made the finish line. As I lay gasping to get my breath back, Fletcher leaned over and kissed my cheek, both of us still laughing. I skritched him behind his ears, gazing up into the bluest, most heavenly skies I'd ever seen in my life.

In just a few moments, Sister Laura had come by to help free us from our bond. "I couldn't think of any way to join in, while wearing this skirt," she laughed. "You made it look like a lot of fun!"

"We'll have to ask Father Garritson for a dispensation next time, find some athletic pants for you or something." I smiled as she helped me sit up, and Fletcher hopped to his hindpaws, ready to help me stand. Before he could, I glanced around in time to see Thomas, one of my deacons, look at me with an expression that I couldn't read clearly, but which felt to me of anything from disappointment to anger. I had no understanding of that look, and despite my enjoying the rest of the day, the look lingered at the back of my mind for several days.

* * * * * * * * * *

For the middle-schoolers, classes began that next Thursday. For the record, I made sure that Fletcher got a good night's sleep (very good, as I recall it), and we woke properly garbed for Mrs. Whitson's bringing us tea. She had told us that she would be there to help make a proper breakfast for Fletcher's first day back to school. It was, in many ways, a milestone for the young wolf, and we made a playfully "big deal" out of it. My wonderful flock had banded together (quietly, I'm happy to say) to acquire a bicycle for him, so he was ready to ride with his best pals, right on time. He was nervous, as was only to be expected. He was also ready to dive in, so I did my very best to behave confidently even as I experienced a strange cross of parental protectiveness and spousal protectiveness. After he and Mrs. Whitson had left (it was, after all, her day off), I went into the sanctuary of the church to spend more than a few minutes thinking and, if I may be forgiven what would seem like arrogance to some, chatting with God. He's really a good listener, and if you can trust yourself enough, He'll even speak to you. For some of us who need it, He'll even use words of one syllable. Perhaps you've heard one of His favorites:Be still and know that I am.

I returned to the vicarage and tended to the clearing up of the remains of breakfast, as I'd insisted upon. It was quite wonderful enough for Mrs. Whitson to have made it; the least I could contribute was to let her keep most of her morning to herself. I actually welcomed the task, as it gave my paws something to do while I considered my own emotions further. Fletcher was truly growing, in all ways. He was not the half-starved, cowering, sopping-wet pup I had found nearly five months before. He had filled out to a very healthy physique, and he'd gained a good half-dozen centimeters or so in height. With a little shifting of budget and welcome financial help from his tutors, we had been able to fund new clothes for him. The wolf was actually proud of his recycled wardrobe, since it was among the very first things that he could call his own, after Othertime. Even so, he was starting to outgrow them a bit, and there was every chance of that infamous "growth spurt" showing up at any time. I'd refrained from asking how tall his sire had grown, or his grandsire on either side. In some ways, I felt that it was better to let it be a surprise to both of us.

It was the other part of his growth that I realized I needed to deal with. I'd dealt with this emotion before, and it was easier this time, but it was still a source of rueful embarrassment. Once again, I stared down the idea of the pup having a life outside of the close, warm cocoon that we had built together. The feeling had started when he'd first started finding friends, finding the strength to meet others, talk with them, feel strong enough to stand on his own hindpaws. This, of course, is proper, healthy, and important. I was proud of his courage then, and I was proud of it now. I was also just the teensiest weensiest bit jealous of it all. Only a little bit, something about the size of, say, Canada.

As I had in the sanctuary, I smirked at myself and cast up yet another group of very thankful thoughts to He Who Had Arranged All This. I'm not big on predestination, but I'm very strongly in favor of following the truest path that your heart can perceive. I had set my paws upon a path that had led me to Fletcher, by accident or artifice, and I was well aware that I would be wise to keep listening to the best of my heart. I cast up thoughts of remembrance as well, to and for the spirit of the wise old angeline who had, with Fletcher, taken welcome residence there.

By the time the dishes were done, a load of laundry put into the washer, and a few other bits of tidying up dealt with, it was well past ten when I returned to my desk to discover that there were messages on the main phone line. One message, actually, left when I was in the sanctuary. I retrieved it, feeling concerned that I might have missed an important call from a parishioner. The message wasn't from my flock, and in truth, I felt even more concern when I dialed the number I'd been asked to return the call to.

The male voice on the phone was crisp. "Archdeacon Valenti's office."

I swallowed against a school-pup's instinct of having been called to the principal's office. "Reverend Graham Darden," I replied in formal kind, "returning the Archdeacon's call."

"One moment." There was something merciless about the fellow's tone of voice, so much so that being placed on a silent hold felt like waiting for some judge to return a verdict. I'd had little dealing with him, or with the Archdeacon, for that matter. We'd met on a few occasions, and he seemed genial enough. Getting a call from one's superior, however, was rarely a good thing, no matter what one's line of work.

"Hullo, Graham?" The new voice was the one I recognized better, that of a large mule deer whose basso could roll eloquently inside the cathedral which he oversaw as head of the diocese and lead celebrant at the high masses. Many came to his services simply to hear him speak. His was not a booming voice of hellfire, yet he needed no assistance from microphones or speakers to be heard clearly throughout the sanctuary. "Thanks for calling back."

"Sorry to have missed your call, Archdeacon; I was spending some time in the sanctuary this morning."

"Holy men at their beads, as the Bard called us. And please, Graham, no need for formality today. I'll be Bernard." He pronounced it in British fashion, with the accent on the first syllable. His voice dropped slightly in mock annoyance. "I shall, however, draw the line at being called 'Bernie'."

From some depth of self, I managed a chuckle. "All right then, Bernard. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Better," the voice smiled a bit. "I know that a call from up the chain of command is enough to make anyone nervous. I just wanted to ask you about your young wolf."

"Fletcher?" I don't think that my voice squeaked, but I couldn't be sure.

"Yes, that's the name. First, out of everything, let me congratulate you on demonstrating the best bases of our faith. From all I've heard, I suspect that you saved the yowen's life."

The phrase all I've heard set off another alarm bell that I did my best to quieten. "I... thank you, I should say. I couldn't simply leave him to whatever might have happened."

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to meet this fine pup. I get the idea that he's rather taken your heart. From guardian to foster sire... a very large step, Graham, and I don't imagine that you're taking it lightly."

"Not lightly at all. I thought and prayed about it," and as I said that, I curled my forepaw into a fist and pressed it against my chest, asking forgiveness for the use of the expected words, "and I talked with friends, and with Mrs. Whitson, and of course I spoke with Fletcher about the idea. Everyone seems to be in favor of it."

"He's made a good showing with your congregation as well," the buck continued smoothly, "good with other yowens his age, very polite to everyone, well-spoken. He seems to have flowered under your guidance."

I'd rather not be shot at all, but the old phrase of_Might as well be shot for a sheep as a lamb_ came to my mind. "I think you said that you wanted to meet him, Bernard? May I ask what brought all this about?"

"Yes, I'd love to meet him." It was as if he hadn't heard my second question. "Perhaps you could bring him round to the offices. I'd be very pleased to show him the cathedral, give him the nickel tour."

"School's back in session. Fletcher started middle school with his friends today."

A pause told me that I'd said something unexpected that caught the mule deer's large ear. "I had thought that he had...not been going to school for some time. He's re-entering at the seventh grade level? I believe he's fourteen?"

At the risk of treading on Father Garritson's hindpaws... bingo. "That's quite right. Before he was taken out of the world, he was preparing to be skipped two full grades. Testing shows that he has the aptitude, and he's been studying with tutors for the past several weeks. Quite bright, is young Fletcher. I hope that I've been seeing properly to his needs." God forgive me, but I couldn't keep the steel edge out of my voice. I let the information sink in, giving the buck a chance to get his hoof out of his maw. The soft sigh on the other end told me I had his attention.

"Graham, I really didn't want to make this call at all. There's been a comment made. The church has no standing against you as a gay male, nor even to Fletcher's experiences of his past. I've had a formal complaint lodged by one of your deacons..."

"You needn't name him." I did my best not to grind my back teeth. "Shall I guess the nature of the complaint?"

"No," came the unexpectedly soft reply. "Graham, because it's a formal complaint, lodged by a deacon..." The sound that the buck made might have concealed an epithet. "It doesn't carry the weight of an attorney or other member of the bar, but it does carry weight within a diocese. The simple fact is that no church can withstand this sort of accusation anymore. Whether or true or not, the mere idea of sexual abuse within any church is too much in the public eye.

"I want you to know this, Graham: I meant what I said, that I want to meet Fletcher. I don't believe for a moment that you would hurt or abuse anyone, especially a yowen, and even more this vulnerable pup who you have taken into your care. I'd like to take his measure before I do anything else. I suppose," he said, his voice getting quieter, "there are those who would say I've given the game away, and that if you really were guilty of such sin, I've given you time to coach the young wolf. I don't think that way, Graham, and I've already heard a few things about Fletcher that speak against this accusation. I hope you'll forgive me for having to embroil you in this political farrago."

I took a moment to breathe. "Thank you, Bernard. Perhaps I should say, I appreciate your position, Archdeacon, and I also appreciate your trust. Would Saturday afternoon be an option for you?"

"My wish is to keep this just between the three of us. Perhaps that would be a good idea; my secretary won't be here, and we'll just have an informal chat." Another pause. "Graham, I once more ask for your forgiveness... There are laws other than God's that..."

Even he couldn't say it. Despite a sense of terror curling gently in my gut, I found softness in my voice. "I know that you have to consider it all."

"Yes."

"Would two o'clock be all right with you?"

"Yes."

"We will be there. I think Fletcher will be all right riding the bus."

I hadn't meant the comment to sting, but on reflection, I could tell that it did. "Graham... there's an admonition against blasphemy, but the words I really feel like saying aren't blasphemous, just filthy. I believe a certain comedian made a list, and I'm tempted to use them all. Just... bring him to meet me, maybe... a pretext as part of the foster sire process? He's meeting your boss, a friendly meeting..." Something changed in his demeanor, and he made his final request. "Two p.m., Saturday. Let's get rid of this idiocy as quickly as we can. God bless, Father Graham."

"May He bless us all, Archdeacon."

I heard a click, then made another as I tried to swallow past my fears.