“Ah.” He breathes noisily. “You’re not the first. You all share a certain haunted look, you know, when you’re forced to come anywhere near the big questions. Spreading the word of the Lord, for example. In your case, I was struck by your extreme reluctance to communicate with me. I must say, you’re the only one who’s actually tried to hide from me on top of a roof. Ha! Hum. I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me how long it’s been?”

The question almost makes me laugh. I don’t even dare tell myself. “I would not.”

“Well, all in good time.” His magnificence only slightly diminished by his busy licking of a tiny pencil wedged between his stumpy fingers, Frobisher is making notes in the small black leather-bound diary in his other hand. “There are things that need to be done. Clearly a furlough is in order. And you will need temporary accommodation. There are some clergymen’s rooms near the cathedral . . .”

“No—no—please, not that. I’ll find something local.”

Frobisher snorts. “As you like. You won’t be able to do much anyway, with your head and your ribs stove in.”

We look at each other silently for some moments. Beside him I feel brutish, unbroken, a stranger to harness.

“James. Put your trust in me. I am on your side.”

He’s never used my first name before. I shake my head, my ribs stabbing my heart. “Archdeacon, you don’t know what’s happened—you don’t know—”

But he’s stopping me with a raised hand, cocking his head. “Listen.”

Thinly, and then gathering volume, comes the rumble of large, many-wheeled machines. Not long after that, questing shouts.

—

Two hours later, after a fair bit of scaffolding and much work with shovels, they stretcher me out and lay me on the grass. The ambulance is on its way. Frobisher kneels beside me. I can tell his knees are stiff, he is tired. Bailey’s barking from his car.

“Let him loose, Archdeacon. He can’t wait very long.”

Bailey hops down, sniffs the air, trots away to relieve himself under a tree before following Frobisher back to me. Frobisher kneels down once more and strokes him. The dog noses his hand, nearly tipped off his feet by the wagging of his own tail.

The ambulance arrives. I am surrounded by medical people. In the last few minutes my lungs have begun to fill with what feels like sand, leaving only a few cubic inches for breath.

“Archdeacon—do you want Bailey?”

He beams. “I’d be very happy to look after him,” he says. “Until you’re on your feet again.”

“No—I mean—keep him . . .”

“Really?” He looks at me, startled. “Are you sure?”

“No time for a dog—he’s fond of you—and you—of him . . .”