“It is a failing. But I am a kindly drunk, and it does not interfere with my faith.” He smiles. “How is it that it’s always laymen who are the biggest puritans? But sit, please, I beg you. Looking up at you is like talking to the bishop, when he’s in a mood.”

Thomas reluctantly lowers himself onto a stool.

“So you really are a priest?”

“Yes, my son.”

“And this church, it’s. . open? I mean, people come here?”

“Oh yes. Do they fill the pews on Sunday? No. No pews, for one thing. Do I celebrate mass in shining vestments? No. They were stolen, actually, some months ago. But they come. Largely for that.” He points to the wine jar, then a few steps beyond it, to the plain cupboard of the confessional. “Are you that way inclined?”

Thomas shakes his head. “No, I only came in to. . But I must go now, someone’s waiting outside.” He rises, keen now to get away from this priest. “I only came because I saw a man go in. An unusual man. He has a crick in his neck.”

“And what do you want with him, this unusual man?”

“Nothing. A friend saw him. Weeks ago. He saw him and decided he was an angel.” Thomas’s voice wavers between resentment and hope. “I suppose I just wanted to make sure that he was wrong.”

“An angel? What an odd idea. Wherever did he get it from?”

“The man does not smoke.”

“Ah! He’s a gentleman.”

“No. What my friend meant: the man does not smoke at all. It’s a trick, I think.”

“A trick?”

Thomas snorts, sudden anger in his breast. “You’re a churchman. I have been told you get issued sweets. A monthly ration, so you can lie to your congregation and pretend you are a decent man.”

The man smiles. It sits surprisingly well on his narrow, weasely face.

“Ah, sweets! Yes, the church sends me two every Christmas. Two! I don’t know by what method they assess the needs of every parish. I sell them for drink. A sin, though I have never smoked during the sale. Your angel is a fraud then, and you want to unmask him.”

“I don’t know what I want. He might be a spy. Someone pretending to be an ordinary citizen.”

It sounds stupid the moment it leaves his lips. The priest takes no heed.

“Yes, a fraud,” he mutters. “Or else, a miracle. You know what most people do with miracles? Shit on them. Burn them at the stake.” He looks up at Thomas again, a sober look, the narrow face dirty and shrewd. “Are you like that, my lad?”

Thomas shudders, light-headed with fever. Talking to this man feels dangerous and liberating all at once. It is the first time in months he has spoken to a stranger — an adult — and not immediately felt judged.