A knock drew Father Brown's attention. He finished the sentence he'd been whispering into his folded hands, then turned. "Mrs. Lacey," he greeted when he saw Lady Felicia's housekeeper standing in the doorway. "Is everything all right?"

It felt silly, almost disdainful, to ask that question in their current situation. The manor that Mrs. Lacey was entrusted with the care of had been battered by two monumental hailstorms. Her employer, another long-term member of the staff, and a regular visitor to the house were all missing, presumably together but still not guaranteed to be safe. There were no lights, no telephone, no promise of when escape might be possible. Of course everything wasn't all right.

But Mrs. Lacey just gave him a kind, if worry-pinched, smile. "I thought I might join you, if you don't mind an Anglican butting in?"

"No 'butting in' to worry about," the Father assured her. "All prayers go to the same ear. Please..." He shuffled over, making space at the far end of the sofa he'd been praying in front of in case Mrs. Lacey wanted to support her arms while she kneeled. "There's more than enough room."

"Thank you."

Father Brown had settled down to serious, life-or-death-level prayer more times than he could count. Even at his most upset, his faith always helped him to focus and to hold onto hope. Tonight, though, he was struggling. The three people he loved most in the world were trapped in a potentially lethal situation, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing besides prayer, that he could offer up as help. A murderer, he reflected darkly, could be outsmarted or reasoned with. Neither tactic would work with this storm, nor with God.

The windows of the south drawing room had been set to shivering by the first crack of thunder. Snapped out of his doze, Father Brown had frowned at the atmosphere outside. The storm had arrived quickly, and he didn't remember hearing or seeing any warning about impending bad weather. There was something odd, too, in the way the clouds had piled up on themselves. Kembleford got its fair share of hard rains, but this didn't feel like anything the Father had experienced before.

The others would have come back into the drawing room if they'd already returned from the conservatory. That was how it always went when he - and usually Sid, too – was left to sleep off tea while the ladies went flower-viewing. Nevertheless, Father Brown left his seat and made his way down into the service areas of Montague House. Perhaps today was a little different for more than just its weather, and they'd chosen not to disturb him when they got back. It didn't hurt to ask.

"Ah, Mr. Warbelow," he said when he caught sight of the butler. "Tell me, has-"

He broke off as the lights failed. The downstairs hall lacked windows, and it was left dark as pitch save for faint gray squares where a few doors stood open. A feminine squeal sounded from beyond one of those squares, then dissolved into a nervous giggle. "...I'll get a candle, then, Mr. Warbelow?" she called out when she'd recovered. "I can see a bit in here still."

"Yes, Hannah, thank you," the butler replied. "You can bring an extra for the Father. And no," he added, his voice turning back towards Father Brown, "I'm afraid that her Ladyship has not returned."

"What about Sid?" Sid might well have grown bored at the conservatory and come back early. If he was hanging around the house somewhere, they could make a dash for the garage and then take the car up to save the ladies from what looked likely to be a very wet walk.

"No. To my knowledge he and Mrs. McCarthy are still accompanying Lady Felicia. Thank you, Hannah," Mr. Warbelow added as the housemaid approached bearing three long tapers. Only her own was lit, but it took no time at all to flare the others into life. "Now, go into the kitchen and wait there with Mrs. Young. I'll fetch my torch from my office and bring Carol and Mrs. Lacey down from the library. I believe they were planning to dust the shelves in there this afternoon."

"Right you are, sir." Hannah began to turn away, then paused. She cocked her head to one side, the corners of her lips arching downward in bemusement. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?" asked Mr. Warbelow.

"That. There it was again. That little tink." She studied them both. "You didn't hear it?"

Father Brown hadn't heard it as quickly as Hannah, but soon the sound she'd described was reaching his ears from all directions. It happened a dozen, two dozen, a hundred times, each clink reminiscent of an ice cube being dropped into a tumbler. A few of the cubes fell in too eagerly and cracked. "Is that...hail?" he ventured.

"Yes, Father," said Mr. Warbelow, his expression tight. "I believe that it is."

It soon became all too obvious that Father Brown's guess had been correct. The squat basement windows of the service floor held firm, but they were soon covered by the ice building up outside. The mission to rescue the housekeeper and the other maid from upstairs revealed that all the plate glass on the ground and first floors was ruined. Most of it had been blown out completely, and the rest bore long cracks and deep chips that the world's most experienced glazier would have deemed irreparable.

"I'm not certain, Father Brown," Mr. Warbelow shared in a low voice as they led Carol and Mrs. Lacey downstairs, "whether they would have been safer inside or outside. At the conservatory, I mean."

Father Brown had been pawing at the same question himself. The hail that had fallen was easily the largest he'd ever seen, and there was a great deal of it. It had come down fast, too, as they learned when they all assembled in the kitchen. "It was throwing gravel from the delivery drive against the windows," said Mrs. Young, the cook. "It dug right into the ground, like someone was planting it there."

Mrs. Lacey's eyes touched each face in turn, searching. "...Her Ladyship?" she finally asked Mr. Warbelow.

"No. Nor Si-" Mr. Warbelow's gaze flickered to the listening housemaids. "...Nor Mr. Carter."

"Oh. Oh, dear." Mrs. Lacey sank into a chair at the servant's table. "The telephone's out," she reported, shaking her head. "I checked the library extension after the power failed."

"So there isn't even a way for us to call for help if they're hurt?" queried Hannah thoughtlessly.

"Hannah!" Carol hissed.

"Well, they were in the conservatory, weren't they? It's all glass." Hannah's face fell as she took in the chastising stares of the others. "It's not like I want anyone hurt. But we're all thinking it, aren't we?"

Father Brown had to speak, had to focus on something other than the gory visions that kept flickering past his mind's eye. "You're right, Hannah," he said. "It's very difficult not to think the worst in situations like these. But we can hope that our greatest fears are mistaken, and we can see if there are things we might be able to do to help improve the final outcome. In fact, if Mr. Warbelow will accompany me to the top of the stairs here, we may be able to come up with some sort of a plan right now."

They climbed up a kinked set of steps towards the kitchen service entrance. "Father," the butler said as he pulled open the door to the outside, "you may not be aware of this, but the conservatory can't be seen from here."

"I know," Father Brown replied. "I came up to look at the ground, not the horizon."

Mr. Warbelow had brought his torch, and Father Brown saw what he needed to see almost immediately. "...It's worse than I thought."

"You thought we might be able to walk up?" asked Mr. Warbelow.

"Yes, I had hoped that was a possibility." It wasn't wholly impossible, he supposed, but it would be difficult going, and a fall onto the frozen spikes that littered the ground could quickly turn a would-be rescuer into a for-certain victim.

"The storm seems to be lingering above us," Mr. Warbelow pointed out. "It could start again at any time. But if you're going to try for it, Father, I'd like to join you."

He was sorely tempted to do exactly that despite the obvious danger. "...Thank you, Mr. Warbelow," answered Father Brown slowly. "But I think for the time being we should stay where we are. We won't help them any by getting ourselves injured." They wouldn't be helping by just sitting on their hands, either. But this was a challenging situation, and he needed time to think through all its angles. He could only pray that it was time the missing trio could afford for him to take.

He would have foregone dinner, but he sensed that any such indication of the true depth of his worry might have a negative impact on the rest of the group. The stew Mrs. Young had prepared was excellent, but he had to force it down. Every spoonful of hot broth reminded him of the chill air that Sid, Mrs. McCarthy, and Lady Felicia were shivering in. The light of the candles that they'd put up throughout the kitchen – it was best, all had agreed, to save Mr. Warbelow's torch for an emergency or a possible rescue attempt – made a stark contrast with the darkness in the forecourt. And the dampening effect that the house above had on the roar of the second round of hail when it came at the end of the mostly silent meal left it all too easy to imagine how overwhelming the racket must be for anyone stuck outside.

"...Do you think it's doing this all the way over to Rewbury?" Carol asked nervously as she played with her spoon. "My family's over that direction," she added for Father Brown's benefit.

"Sometimes fierce weather events are very localized," he replied. "They may not even know that we're having a storm." If only everyone's families were equally distant from this mayhem. Father Brown sent Carol an encouraging smile – he wasn't sure, in retrospect, how he'd managed it – then folded his napkin and stood up. "Mr. Warbelow, is there a room I can use for a bit of quiet reflection?"

"Of course, Father Brown. Take my office."

Hannah's eyes brightened. "Are you coming up with a plan to go get them?"

"I certainly hope to, Hannah." Because if he didn't do something soon, he might start to despair. "...I certainly hope to."

He was still alone in the butler's office when the hail stopped again. "Thank you, Lord," he'd murmured when the tempest faded. The ground was likely even more impassable than it had been before, but at least now they might make a try for the conservatory without being bludgeoned to death. It was progress.

Unfortunately, that was where all progress on Father Brown's plan had ceased. He turned the issues at hand – terrible footing, bitter cold, a high likelihood of injury for any and everyone involved, and never mind the still-lingering storm itself – over and over again. Between each consideration, he prayed. Prayer came hard tonight, when all he wanted was to find his answers and put them into motion, but he persevered. Even if his recitations weren't doing his problem-solving any good, maybe they would do something for the others.

He was on his fifth round of prayers after Mrs. Lacey's arrival when the too-familiar drumbeat started up once more. "Oh," the housekeeper soughed beside him. She slipped sideways, dropping from her knees until she sat fully on the floor. "Oh, Father Brown...I want so very much to believe, to have faith that they're all right...but in this...how? I put on a strong face out in the kitchen, for the girls, but it's like Hannah said. It would be a miracle for anyone trapped out in this storm without cover to survive it. Why should they be the survivors, if there are any to be had at all?"

"...Mrs. Lacey," Father Brown confided, "I don't mind telling you that I'm having my own difficulties with that question tonight. I think the best answer we have is to trust in the traits that God has granted to everyone who found themselves caught out this evening.

"He's given our missing people good tools," he insisted. "Intelligence; adaptability; determination; love. The last one is the most important, I believe. Sometimes love can stretch any other ability well beyond its usual limits. That is where I'm pinning my hope."

As he spoke, Father Brown realized that he was convincing himself along the way. There was no guarantee, of course, because there was never a guarantee, but if any three people in the world could band together and get themselves and each other through this ordeal then those three people were Felicia Montague, Sid Carter, and Bridgette McCarthy.

Mrs. Lacey had wet trails on her cheeks, but she rallied a smile. "...Thank you, Father. I...yes. You're right, of course. Thank you." She sniffled softly, then straightened her shoulders and pushed herself back up onto her knees. "...Shall we pray?"

"Yes," Father Brown nodded. "Let us pray." Fervently.

When a monumental crash shook the house a short while later, both Father Brown and Mrs. Lacey leapt to their feet. There was no light in hallway, since the others were still massed in the kitchen and there was no point in illuminating empty space, so their speed was limited to the fastest walk that the shielded flames on their tapers could take. Just as they emerged into the comparable glare of Mrs. Young's domain, a cry rang out. "Your Ladyship!"

There, thought Father Brown as he spied the figure at the bottom of the kitchen stairs, was one-third of the equation, at least. How she had gotten home with the hail pounding down as hard as ever was a mystery, the solution to which he was very much looking forward to hearing. Not now, though, not when he could spy a half-dozen cuts, some dried, some still seeping, from clear across the room. Lady Felicia was cradling one wrist carefully, too, and it looked as if she might have a black eye by morning. But her lips curved upward as her worried staff rushed to meet her, and despite her obvious exhaustion she offered up a morsel of information. "I have," she announced in a tone that brooked no opposition, "the absolute best chauffeur in the entire world. Even if he did crash the car into the house at the end."

Ah. That explained the sound that had momentarily drowned out the storm.

"I have no idea how we are still alive," Ms. McCarthy added as she stepped off the last of the risers and into the candlelight. A spark of pride glittered in her eyes as she went on. "He can't possibly have been able to see where he was going with all the hail coming through the windscreen." From a distance Father Brown judged her injuries to be equivalent to Lady Felicia's, although Mrs. McCarthy was sporting a limp in place of a sore wrist. "And that hill! I have never been on such a wild ride in all my life, and let me tell you, I hope I never have to be again." She shivered, then drew the oil-stained blanket she'd come in wearing closer around her shoulders. "This chill is something else I can do without a repeat of, as well."

"You both must be frozen to the bone," said Mrs. Lacey. She had left Father Brown's side and was rapidly taking control of the situation. "Please, Your Ladyship, Mrs. McCarthy, come through to Mr. Warbelow's office. There's plenty of space there, and we can light the fireplace for you. The central heat's still working, but you'll want the extra warmth, I'm sure. Mrs. Young," Mrs. Lacey directed the cook as she hustled her charges towards the hallway, "tea to start with, please, and plenty of hot water besides. Carol, go to the linen room and bring me a stack of sheets. Then fetch my shears. We'll need to make bandages; I'll show you how. Hannah, the fire."

"Yes, Mrs. Lacey," came a pair of acknowledgements and bobs before the housemaids scurried past Father Brown to attend to their assignments. He stepped aside for them, then reached out to greet Lady Felicia as she approached.

"Father." She embraced him with one arm and a tired smile.

"My dear Lady Felicia. I can't tell you how glad I am that you're home."

"Me, either," she joked weakly. Pulling back, she squeezed his hand – her fingers were so frigid that Father Brown wondered at her ability to bend them at all – and then glanced towards the darkened staircase. Sid's outline had appeared there during Mrs. Lacey's martial moment, but he was hesitating at the edge of the kitchen's glow. "Father...I need to talk to you later," Lady Felicia whispered. "It's important."

A tendril of concern began to wind through the relief that had flooded his veins only seconds before. "Of course. Once you've had a chance to rest."

"No," Mrs. McCarthy put in. "As soon as we are fit to be seen, and no longer. And speaking of being seen..." She turned back to the stairs, wavering on her bad leg. Lady Felicia, Father Brown, and Mrs. Lacey all reached out to stabilise her, but the older woman didn't seem to notice her own stumble. "Sidney," she called across the length of the kitchen, "what exactly do you think you are doing, dawdling in the shadows?"

"Just letting my eyes adjust, Mrs. M.," he called back. "Right behind you."

"Well, you had just better be. I've not forgotten our deal, even if you have." She exchanged a deeply disquieted look with Lady Felicia, then dropped her voice again. "I don't think we ought to-"

"I agree," Lady Felicia nodded.

"Wait," said Father Brown. It was obvious that they'd both been about to make for the staircase, no doubt to drag Sid down out of the dusk. Father Brown couldn't blame them for the urge – he'd heard the asthenia in Sid's tone, and he didn't like it any more than the two women seemed to – but he stopped them anyway. "You won't help him by neglecting yourselves. You should go with Mrs. Lacey."

"But Father Brown-" began Mrs. McCarthy.

"Mrs. McCarthy," he rejoined, "I really must insist." Sid had to know that he was causing them all stress by refusing to step into the light. If he was persisting despite that, he had a good reason. "Please, go."

Neither of them had to ask if he would take care of Sid. It was a given. Still, Lady Felicia clasped his hand once more. "You'll come get us as soon as you're done." It wasn't a question.

"Of course I will, Lady Felicia. Mrs. McCarthy," he hugged her as she passed reluctantly by, and used the action to chivvy her along down the corridor. "Get some rest."

Father Brown held his position at the end of the hallway until the door to Mr. Warbelow's office closed. Then he strode across the kitchen, the butler fast on his heels. "Sid?"

"...C'n I fall down now?"

The Father sucked in a short breath. "Not on a staircase, no, you may not. Mr. Warbelow, will you help me?"

They managed to get him seated at the table even though he objected to any use of his right arm in the effort. Mrs. Young caught a glimpse of the scene, gasped, and turned quickly back to her work with a stricken expression. Father Brown had to fight to keep the same look off his own face once he stepped back and took in the full picture. "...Oh, Sid," he sighed. "You and your knack for getting yourself into terrible messes."

From the elbow down, Sid's sleeves were shredded. The flesh below didn't look to be in much better shape. What skin was left on his hands was already purpling into bruise underneath all the drying blood, and several of his fingers were a different shape than Father Brown remembered them being at tea. A deep gash marked the hairline at his left temple. Other impacts had split his lip in two places, sliced open the bridge of his nose, and left him with angry scrapes on his chin and cheek that matched the ones glistening at his knees. "Had to hide, didn't I?" Sid muttered. "They'd've lost their minds, they'd seen."

"You're not wrong." The ladies would still be deeply upset when they eventually saw him, Father Brown knew, but Sid had been right to push that moment of shock off until later.

"Tell me," he asked, "how much more am I going to find when I get you to bed?" This was an important question not because the answer would change how they proceeded – the phones were still down, and the force with which the car had hit the house led Father Brown to assume that it wouldn't be going anywhere without major repairs – but because he wasn't sure if he himself could bear any additional unpleasant surprises tonight. The more he knew in advance, the better.

"Um..." His eyes were trying to close. Mr. Warbelow quickly slipped his hand between the wall and the back of Sid's head before they could thud together. "Ta," Sid whispered when he felt the butler's palm.

"Sidney." That would get his attention. It always did, which was why the Father didn't abuse its power. Mrs. McCarthy could Sidney this and Sidney that all day long and get more or less the same response every time. The sound of Father Brown saying his full Christian name, though, would likely suffice to raise Sid from the dead.

Sure enough, his head snapped back up. "Ow," he protested. "J'you do that for? Makes me jump every time."

"Sid, I need you to answer me. How much more is there?"

"It's...I mean, it's not gonna kill me, probably?"

"...'Probably?'" How reassuring.

"Probably, yeah. 'M not a doctor. I just...know how it feels. Bleedin' hurts." A grin tried to form on his lips, but it ended in a groan. "Funny, though." He lifted his hands just enough to draw attention to them. "Bleeding...hurts."

It was insane, but Father Brown had to bite back a chuckle anyway. "Don't share that one with Mrs. McCarthy," he advised.

"You kidding, Father?" His eyelids moved south again. "I didn't get hit that hard..."

"Right." Father Brown bent and took Sid's left arm over his shoulders. Standing, he used his free hand to catch the younger man by the waist and keep him steady. "Mr. Warbelow, is Sid's room still where it used to be?"

"Yes, Father. Last door on the right. Although I could have a closer one made up, if that would be easier."

The Father glanced down at the face lolling semi-consciously against his shoulder. "No." Sid might prefer his caravan to the quarters that Lady Felicia kept for him, but he slept at Montague House often enough that the space would be a familiar sight when he woke up. Besides, every step they took to get there would be another opportunity for Father Brown to give thanks for the weight in his arms. By that measure, Sid's room wasn't nearly far enough away. "We'll make it just fine, thank you."