“Good, thanks. Went to the movies last night with my sister and niece. I’m happy to report that I still fall asleep in animated films.”

Tilly smiled. “Heading straight back to your mum’s after this?”

Kate nodded.

Across the aisle, a little girl was turned in her seat. Wide-eyed and hopeful, she stared in their direction. “Um…Til?” Kate whispered.

Tilly only had eyes for Sister Tessie. “Mmm?”

“That little girl is looking at you.”

Tilly followed the direction of her line of sight, and Kate watched as the surprise on the little girl’s face grew. Tilly cupped her hand in a tiny wave that only served to foster the child’s delight. “That’s Declan’s daughter, Lily,” she explained. “She’s five.”

With the first notes of the organ, the congregation stood. Kate cast her gaze around the church. It was nowhere near as beautiful as St. Joan’s. Instead of stained glass windows, carved wooden statues stood between high, narrow windows. Banners of St. Vincent adorned the walls, the canvas fluttering from the exposed brick under the gentle force of the high, wire-cased fans.

The altar boys and acolytes passed first, and then, there he was, at the end of the procession—the illustrious Vicar Armstrong.

Kate stiffened at the sight of him. He was handsome, cleanly shaven with salt-and-pepper hair and a sharp jawline above his clerical collar. And he was tall, at least six-one. Even dressed in the starched black cassock, it was just as simple to imagine him commanding a different setting altogether. He could just as easily be a lawyer or a businessman, or some kind of executive, feet elevated on the edge of his desk and a cigar burning between his fingers, calling out to his secretary to fetch him a coffee. Okay, she thought, maybe you’re being a tad dramatic.

It was obvious why Tilly had fallen for his charm. In welcoming the sisters of St. Joan, he was charismatic and confident, and it wasn’t long before his gaze found Tilly—and Kate.

When the time came to give his sermon, he took full advantage of the cordless microphone, moving from behind the decorative lectern to explain the scripture. Matthew Chapter twenty-three went down a treat, Kate thought sardonically. He used Jesus’s denunciation of the Scribes and Pharisees, the ancient communities that had allowed power and authority to go to their heads, to segue into seeking donations for the Christmas mission to Vanuatu. He wasn’t asking for textbooks or clothes, he clarified—shipping containers cost a fortune—it was monetary donations of which the church was in need. From the back of the church, a baby wailed. Usually, the requests for donations came with the final five minutes of a service, when church newsletters were passed around and the final blessing was granted. Not in the middle of the goddamn homily. People like this guy, Kate thought, are the reason people join cults.

When children between six and twelve were called out to Sunday school, the church grew noisy with the loud whispers of children bidding farewell to their parents, kneelers creaking beneath the weight of the youngsters as they shuffled out into the aisles, eager to escape the hour of sacred silence.