“It’s very good for him to be home. I suppose the Fannings are very proud of him—”

If it’s hungry and bestial, it’s the kind of madness I want. Sometimes I have dreamed of things like that. When I awoke, I was tremendously ashamed. Yes, yes, that’s the sort of a world we’re living in: it makes you ashamed of the sun, the spices in the soil, the consistency of living flesh … I know, because I’ve been ashamed of it all, just as you have.

Demon came scraping back from his errand, the empty basket on his arm.

“It was kind. Thank you, a great deal.”

“Not at all, Mr. Bale. A very tiny tribute to a respected neighbor.”

He walked out to the old carriage, and clutched her hand as she lifted her foot to the step. He was numb; he could not feel the pulsation of her fingers, the weight she leaned upon him as she took her seat. She raised a flimsy parasol; Demon climbed upon his perch and took up the reins. Mrs. Fanning inclined her head. The fat mares went lunging away through the ruts, the tight harness glistening across the sweat of their backs. Cybo trotted between the rear wheels, tail drooping now, a stubborn little white caboose.

Before the carriage was out of sight, a middle-aged man in a long coat had appeared from somewhere and was standing beside Dan, combing a thin beard and dusting off his shiny lapels. “Daniel. Indeed. So you’re Daniel! I am the Reverend Solt. I was your dear grandfather’s pastor. I respected him, sir, and loved him as a true servant of the Lord … vineyard … arms of our Saviour … funeral at two o’clock … do not know how many Masons … and music; the chaplain will … and God our Heavenly Father, so we must not grieve for the departed.”

“Yes,” Dan said. Yes. Yes. For God’s sake, what do you want of me? Oh, I’m sorry. You mean it. You cannot help yourself; there are so many people like you in the world. You cannot help—

“Daniel, I came to you feeling that you might find comfort in a moment of prayer.”

“Very well,” Bale told him wearily. They left the fragrance of the outside shade and went into the house. Reverend Solt hesitated at the closed parlor doors. “Not in there,” Dan said, sharply. They moved into the library across the hall. Reverend Solt put his flat hat on Pentland Bale’s desk, and slid down on his knees, facing a narrow Windsor chair. He looked questioningly at Dan, knotting his creased, farm-worn hands together. He had not been a minister all his life.