“Not anymore, anyway,” I said, ignoring Helen’s and Ruth’s irritation. “You’re certain it was stolen? I find that the smaller the finger, the more likely it is to be misplaced.”

“Saint Róisín’s finger resides in a small glass case,” said Helen. “It is never disturbed, even during services. The only key is kept in my office, and that door is always locked, no matter the needs of the city’s vagrants.”

“The case was smashed?” I said.

“To dust,” said Ruth, so low I could hardly hear.

“Nothing else was taken?”

“As my brother said, there really is nothing to steal.”

“And why do you need the finger back?”

“What kind of question is that?” said Enoch.

“It’s, what, an inch and a half long? Shriveled? Pink? I can find you one to match in any snowbank on this avenue. I assure you, the donor will not mind.”

“It wouldn’t be Róisín.”

“And you really believe that little scrap of flesh you keep in a box is?”

I thought they would be angry. If they were, it didn’t show. Enoch blanched; Judy cackled, and Helen became, if this was possible, even more blank. Ruth’s stern eyes softened, and she looked on me with pity as she took my hands in hers.

“You have lost quite a lot,” she said, stroking my hands, searching my face.

“So has everyone. That’s an easy thing to guess.”

“You’ve lost a parent. Both parents?”

“What does that have to do with your stolen digit?”

“You have no family, few friends. You have seen too much bloodshed, too much pain. This winter has been hard for all of us, but harder for you. You try to carry the city on your back, and it has bent you double.”

I tried to keep her from seeing that she wasn’t wrong. I don’t think I succeeded.

“Róisín is the patron saint of suffering. Her death was more horrible than you could imagine, and she bore it with a smile. Our family has lost much, too, and our parishioners have lost even more. Decades of suffering, and she has always been there. Without her to point the way, our family, our church, will be lost.”

“Our city, too,” said Enoch. “Without our church, the whole city is in jeopardy.”

I had never been inside the building they called a church, but I had seen it. A onetime Italian banquet hall on Carmine Street, its old sign shone through the poorly painted marquee that invited the world to “Join the Electric Church.” I had always wondered why they chose it. In a district overrun with abandoned churches, some in serviceable condition, they preferred a dump.