Her line evaporated and left her exposed to her friend, who held the dish of fire. She stepped toward him, set one arm across her chest as the service book indicated for those who wished a blessing but not the ash. He did not recognize her until he’d already dipped his hand into the fire. His eyebrows rose, and his body hitched in its performance of the rite. He caught himself before he spilled the flame.

His fingers, when they touched her scalp, were harder than she expected. Calluses, like those that glazed her knuckles.

The girl and the mechanic waited for her in the pew. The girl glowed with faith and sweat.

After service, Cat lingered outside the sacristy door, leaning against a tree trunk. Acolytes emerged two by two, and at last came Abelard, wearing rust-colored everyday robes, cigarette smoldering. “You did well,” she said from the shadows, and grinned when he started and turned.

“Half gave me a heart attack.”

“God will provide.” She hugged him. “Nice service. Why didn’t you give the sermon?”

“It’s Carmichael’s congregation. I wouldn’t presume.”

“Not even now that you’re a saint?”

“I’m no more a saint than you are.”

“Low blow.”

“Technical branch doesn’t sermonize. If I tried, I’d scare these people half to death with stress tolerance analogies.”

“Gustave preached. And Tara said you made a good speech at the church hearing.”

“I had to,” he said. “I’m surprised you’re here. Usually couldn’t drag you into church with a team of horses. Or back to the Fell, for that matter.”

“I tried to find you at the temple, but they said you’d gone to hold evening service. I figured you’d come here.”

“What do you want?”

“I need a reason to see a friend?”

He ashed his cigarette onto the sidewalk, crushed out embers with his shoe. “Walk with me?”

They did, down Wilson and north on Candlemarch. “Been a long time since I was back here,” she said when they passed gated Alowith Park. Puddles broke streetlights to rainbows. “Out of uniform, I mean. You remember Nick Masters? Offered me a smoke in line for the service tonight. Didn’t recognize me, or if he did, he didn’t say.”

“You broke his big sister’s nose.”

“It was a fair fight. I was six, she was eight, and she had it coming.”

“You’re limping.”

“Turns out,” she said as they passed the park, “not everyone reacts to apocalyptic news as well as the good people of Slaughter’s Fell. There was a riot dockside. I got run over by a wagon, if you can imagine. In the Suit, but I’ll still have a nice bruise when this is over.”

“Sounds bad.”

She threw a pebble at a squirrel. The squirrel leapt to another branch, and then to a different tree. “It was, a bit. How do you think we’ll do tomorrow?”