Thanks everyone reading, following, and reviewing! I'm trying to stay at least a couple chapters ahead of what I'm posting, and some of your predictions are getting very warm! I'm sure I won't keep up this daily pace, but I felt it was time for the second half of fictional Shrove Tuesday to go live, not a week ahead of the real-life timetable. (In 1998, it was on 24 February. Yes, I checked.)

Please keep the feedback coming, if you have it to spare.


Accordions and fiddles pulsed in the background as a growing tide of revellers filled the few gaps in their stomachs, letting gumbo and jambalaya slide in between the pancakes like a sort of gustatory grout. The sweetness of hurricane cocktails fought for palate space with the fatty decadence of the beignets, and the landlady still hadn't even brought out the real dessert.

If she were honest with herself, she'd admit she was waiting for one particular guest - and he'd likely be the last to arrive. It was well past nine o'clock before he did, and he had changed into civvies, no less. Assumpta noticed he had a few shirt buttons undone up top, as if to flaunt the part of his neck usually obscured by the dog collar. She caught herself staring too long at the soft hollow below his Adam's apple. It was practically the same as an ordinary man showing up naked, for the effect it had on her concentration. She envisioned a flock of good-looking English priests, converging on The Big Easy and exposing their necks in exchange for shiny plastic beads.

A freckled hand waved in front of her eyes. "Assumpta," Siobhan said, as if for the third time.

Now would be a good time to blink! "Mm?"

"You all right?"

Assumpta felt her skin flush. "Sorry. Hurricane?"

The vet nodded, sliding some coins across the bar. As the publican made her change, she watched the curate linger at the edge of the crowd. Since when did he drop in only to avoid her?

She retrieved the king cake from the kitchen now, setting it out in all its gaudy splendour. The bright green, purple, and gold of the frosting seemed unapologetic in their unnatural garishness.

She told herself she was distributing slices at random, told herself she couldn't remember where the prize was hidden, but she found herself cutting the thing rather strategically, saving a particular segment for very last. She bit her lip as the recipient lowered his fork into the pastry, touching down almost instantly on the tiny porcelain trinket inside.

"Looks like Father Clifford got the baby!" Donal announced.

"Next party's on you, Father," Liam chimed in.

Assumpta smirked at the pair, ever content to shine a light on the obvious. Then she aimed a softer smile at the priest. "Lucky you are that fun of any kind is proscribed the next forty days," she said.

"No kidding," he answered. His smile didn't reach all the way to his eyes, and his gaze didn't reach all the way to hers.

"Hurricane?" she tried.

He made eye contact for only a split second. "Better not."

"Who on Earth says 'better not' on Shrove Tuesday?" Brendan cut in.

"Eat, drink, and be merry, Father," Padraig said from behind his mask, "for tomorrow we die!"

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Well, if you won't drink," Assumpta said, "how about coffee and chicory?"

For whatever reason, the stimulants seemed to hold some appeal.


Stay. Don't stay. Help clean up. Don't help.

He had just a bit longer to make up his mind. It was, after all, his last chance to hang round the pub until the "break" from abstaining on Sunday. Probably should just steer clear entirely until Easter, he reasoned. No. Too obvious. One pint on Sundays.

One.

The sight of his landlord reminded him of the other thing he meant to do tonight.

"Brian!"

The businessman's usual look of grudging impatience had softened somewhat with a battery of hurricanes. "Father?"

"Is it all right to lower the water thermostat at my house?"

"No problem, no problem. Can I ask why?"

Ask Onan what he'd do in a warm shower, the priest thought. He spoke the excuse he'd prepared in advance: "Just thinking of my energy use. Safety, too, I guess."

"Thing's rather touchy. Bit of a fuss to adjust. I'll stop by tonight and walk you through it."

"Thanks."

Peter felt relieved at the incidental curfew this imposed on him. He had to leave when Quigley left. No temptation to stay late collecting glasses now. No fear of gathering new material for the absurd peep show that had recently overtaken his rapid eye movements.

He glanced at her again, in spite of himself. She was looking at him, but quickly turned away.


Assumpta knew deep down that she was getting the cold shoulder. Peter's avoidance was clearly deliberate, not some oversight in the haste of his preparations for the Lenten season. Whatever his motivation, the thought of her had not merely combusted in the fire of last year's palms.

She watched him pocket the stupid porcelain baby and exit with Brian Quigley, a clear sign he would not be lingering to assist with cleanup. The back of her neck went hot again, this time with frustration. What had she done to alienate him? Why come to her party and gawp at her all night, then act like a stranger when she addressed him?

She took out the pique on the pot in front of her, scraping away scorched-on rice grains with brute force. She had no patience for grown men who dealt in passive-aggression. If he was punishing her for failing to read his mind, he had better expect some consequences. One more stunt like this, and she wouldn't hesitate to bar him.


"You really want it that cold?"

"It isn't cold, Brian. It's all I need!"

"How will you sanitise your dishes?"

"Fine, fine, a couple degrees more. I just don't want things to get too hot." That sounded wrong. "I don't want to be..." Tempted? "Scalded."

"You'll be lucky not to go hypothermic," Quigley snorted.

Peter ignored this. "I appreciate the help."

Brian left, and Peter shut the utility closet.

Upstairs, he undressed at his bedside. As his trousers hit the floor, a tiny clack alerted him to the king cake baby falling out of his pocket. He buried it in the drawer of the nightstand. One less reminder.

It didn't help. After ninety sleepless minutes, he found himself seated on the green sofa in the pub kitchen, the resident temptress standing before him. He soon realised neither of them had on anything but a Mardi Gras mask. She climbed into his lap; every inch of him that came in contact with her felt luminous.

Her lips brushed his ear. "What are you giving up, Peter?"

"Drinking," he gasped.

"I don't think so. What are you giving up?" That voice. He wanted to hear it make very specific noises.

"The pub."

"Keep trying, you're so close." She hovered precariously above him; if he moved a single muscle ... connection. Union. "Peter, please; have you decided what you're giving up?"

"Everything," he said aloud, waking himself. 3:36. His clock, the long fast ahead, the irrepressible reactions of his own body...all of them were mocking him.

He lay still for what felt like ages, until the physical symptoms subsided. Then he headed to the bathroom for a lukewarm rinse.