To Darkness And To Death

3:25 P.M.

Clare was trying to decide who Willard Aberforth reminded her of. He was tall, several inches taller than Russ, which put him in the six-and-a-half-feet and up camp. However, his bones and flesh were afraid of heights; he stooped forward, arms dangling, while his jowls and eyelids and earlobes sagged toward the safety of the ground.

His face was all she could see, because Father Aberforth was in full clericals, black-swathed and white- collared, black shoes polished to a high shine, black jacket and black coat. He gave her a long once-over as she stood at the door, taking in her bean-sprout hairdo, her ratty thermal shirt, her stained pants, and her grimy sweat socks.

“You are the Reverend Clare Fergusson?” he asked doubtfully.

Sometimes, Hardball Wright drawled in her ear, the only option you have is to go straight ahead through the firefight. “Yes,” she said in her most chipper tone. “I am. Would you like to come in?” She stood to one side and opened her front door wider.

“Thank you.” He stepped past her.

“May I take your coat?”

He handed her his overcoat, his gaze traveling across her living room. The coffee table was entirely hidden by old copies of the Post-Star and stacks of books. Her running shoes and socks lay abandoned in front of the sofa, and one of the club chairs was occupied by a sweater and a bag of overdue videos.

“I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting you.” The words were out before she could stop them. Damn. She hated apologizing for the state of her house. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

He coughed, a strangled sound that made her think of tubercular wards. “No, thank you. I trust this won’t take long.”

She had the same sinking sensation she used to get when her CO called her into his office. She indicated the chairs and sofa, darting forward to kick her shoes out of sight and remove the video bag from the chair.

She sat. He sat opposite her.

“The bishop asked me to speak with you, before his visit, on a serious matter. He didn’t feel he could give it the attention it deserves during his visit tomorrow.” He smiled thinly. “Between the Eucharist, the luncheon, the evensong, and the reception afterward, you’ve got him quite swept off his feet.”

“I’m sorry,” she began automatically. A serious matter. Her heart sank. There were almost too many possibilities. In the two years she had been at St. Alban’s, she had wound up in the newspaper or on television far too many times. She viewed it as an unfortunate consequence of her work as a minister. Russ, on the other hand, referred to it as hanging around with losers and butting into police business. Perhaps the bishop agreed.

Aberforth waved off her apology. “The bishop would rather this not get around any more than it has. It’s better for all concerned if we deal with the situation quietly.” He leaned forward. “I’m sure you’ll appreciate that we don’t want to be giving any of the other clergy in the diocese any ideas.”

There was another possibility, of course. She didn’t want to imagine it; the thought skittered around like a mouse trying to hide in the dark. What if gossip had reached the bishop’s ears? Gossip about her and Russ.

Oh, God, she thought. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She tried to settle her churning stomach with the thought that the bishop couldn’t know anything, that he couldn’t have anything other than rumors and innuendo.

“This bishop understands that a new priest, untested and untried, can make mistakes.”

Who told him? One of the vestry? One of her congregation? She felt another nauseating lurch. What if it were Linda Van Alstyne? Oh, God, what if she’d been followed around by a private investigator and there were photos of Russ coming in and out of the rectory, of them lunching together, of her walking at his side along dark streets?

“It’s easy, without proper guidance, to believe you’re making decisions out of compassion. Or that your decisions only affect the people involved. But,” he smiled his thin smile again, “as you can see, nothing stays secret in a small town. And every individual congregation, whether in Millers Kill or in Manhattan, is a small town.”

But still. There was nothing to prove that they had slept together, because they hadn’t. The times they had touched, over the past two years, she could name, date, describe, because they were so very rare. And precious. She could bull her way through this, because she had done… nothing… wrong.

Aberforth’s black eyes searched hers. “I can see you’re troubled. Please. I’m not here to punish. I’m here as the shepherd, seeking the straying lamb.”

She flashed on a picture of Aberforth scooping her up in his scarecrow arms, carrying her bleating back to the fold.

“So, I’d like to hear in your own words why you broke your vows of obedience to your bishop and performed a”-his mouth worked as if the words inside had a bad taste-“ceremony of union between two homosexuals.”

Clare stared at him. “What?”

“Why you gave the church’s blessing to an invalid union.”

She knew she must look poleaxed, but she couldn’t help it. “What are you talking about?”

His face collapsed into deep folds as he frowned. “Ms. Fergusson, feigning ignorance is unbecoming. The bishop has received reliable information that this past January, you celebrated a public ceremony wherein two men exchanged vows with one another. Whether you call it a blessing or a ceremony of union, it-”

“You mean Emil and Paul’s service? That’s what this is all about?” She started laughing in relief.

“Ms. Fergusson! This is hardly the response I was hoping for!”

She bent over, laughing and gasping for breath. “I’m… I’m sorry,” she managed. “It’s just… Ithought…” She pulled herself together, sniffing and wiping her eyes. Father Aberforth was looking at her as if she were the scriptural woman possessed by unclean spirits. “I apologize,” she said, under control now. “I… when… it was the stress.”

“Ms. Fergusson, are you aware that the bishop has stated explicitly that no such ceremonies will be performed in his diocese?”

She folded her hands. “Yes, I am.”

“And you did, in your ordination, promise to, and I quote, ‘obey your bishop and other ministers who may have authority over you and your work’?”

“Yes, I did.”

He sat back and let the words hang in the air. “Well?” he said finally.

“When I performed the ceremony of union, it was at a local inn, not at St. Alban’s. I didn’t mark down the union in our church register, and I made sure both of them knew I was there as a friend, not as a representative of the Episcopal Church.”

“Were you wearing your stole?”

The long, scarflike symbol of her priesthood. “Yes,” she said.

“Did you pronounce God’s blessing over them?”

“Yes. But you don’t have to be ordained to bless-”

“Don’t equivocate with me, Ms. Fergusson. You were acting as a priest of the diocese of Albany.”

“Father Aberforth, I interviewed both the men involved, as I would any candidates for marriage. They had been together ten years. No one could claim they were rushing into it ‘unadvisedly or lightly,’ to use the words from the marriage ceremony. They satisfied me that it was their desire to formalize, as best they could, a loving and monogamous relationship.”

Aberforth crossed one long black-clad leg over the other. “I’m willing to accept that you mistakenly thought you were not acting as a priest and that your inexperience clouded your judgment. Are you willing to confess that you were wrong in what you did?”

She phrased her answer carefully. “I felt that they were reaching out to God. I wanted to reach back, to help them connect.”

“Then you should have done so by gently correcting their sin, not by encouraging it.”

“I cannot believe that two adults in a faithful and self-sacrificing relationship are sinning.”

“Ms. Fergusson.” Aberforth speared her with his black eyes. “You have been ordained a scant two years. Bishops and learned theologians have been debating these issues in our church for longer than you’ve been alive.