Ash Wednesday was predictably quiet at the pub, with so many of the villagers fasting until after the evening service. Every visitor who did come in for dinner looked famished; some gorged to make up for lost time, but others restrained themselves in the spirit of the day. All bore the telltale grey smudges on their brows. It bothered Assumpta to think that today, Father Clifford had lovingly run his thumb over their foreheads in blessing; had whispered a reminder about the meaning of things; had physically touched and spoken to everyone in town except for her. She thought of all the reasons and places to draw pictures on someone's bare skin, all the substances to use as a finger-paint, all the things to murmur in someone's ear...

Niamh caught her eyeing the pub entrance. "Doubt that barrel delivery would get in today," she said.

Assumpta grunted. Different kinds of denial, she thought bitterly.

Last orders came and went with no sign of the curate. Busy, she told herself, and then yeah, right. As she latched the door behind the last departing punter, she wondered what he was hiding from.

Peter stared dumbly at the mite box on his kitchen table. He had planned to put a coin in for every thought of her, but it became quickly apparent by Thursday afternoon that he would need a much bigger alms box, and possibly access to a change machine.

Or a mint.

I could run to the pub and have her break a few bills down, he thought, immediately recognising the flaw in his logic.

The teakettle began to hiss, and as the heat and pressure built up within it, the hiss turned quickly to a scream. He pushed numbly back in his chair and reached a long arm across the narrow room to pull it off the heat. The pitch of the whistle fell sharply now, evoking thoughts of a cartoon character plummeting off a cliff.

He drank his tea without really steeping it for any significant length of time, then stepped out into the brisk air.

Hendley's it was.

"I'm afraid I can't sell you any change," Kathleen said, a look of shallow pity on her face. "Need small coins when you deal in odd amounts. On the other hand," she began, then stopped abruptly.

"What?" Peter asked.

The shopkeeper wrinkled her nose. "The pub might be more than happy to cash down. Bank deposits and such."

Unbelievable. Kathleen Hendley, of all people, was nudging him toward temptation.

Stepping out onto the street, his eyes fixated on Assumpta across the way, manoeuvring unwieldy barrels from the back door of the pub.

Go lend a hand.

No! Hide now, before she sees you.

It doesn't count if you don't go inside the pub.

Like hell it doesn't!

Seeming to sense his stare, Assumpta looked up. Busted.

At first she appeared to brighten at the sight of him; after a moment, that brightness gave way to confusion, then exasperation. Finally, she rolled her eyes and disappeared back inside.

"Pint of lager if you would," Niamh called over the bar.

"Cultivating Kieran's palate already?" Assumpta grinned.

Niamh shook her head, retrieving a bottle from the baby carrier for emphasis. "Way I've been pumping I should be good for a few hours."

"Well enough," Assumpta said, pulling the pint.

"Besides," Niamh went on, "Gotta keep the light stuff moving somehow."

Assumpta froze, pint in hand. "Sorry?"

"Well, with Father Clifford giving up pub life for Lent, and all. Someone has to pick up the slack."

"What?!"

"You should be flattered," Niamh said casually. "I gave up sweets meself. You know how fond I am of-"

"Not sure the comparison holds, Niamh!"

"I don't see how it's any different. A vice is a vice!"

Assumpta bit down hard on her tongue as she mentally pieced together the justification for her anger. "When did he tell you?" she sighed.

"Pancake supper."

"He made no mention later that night!"

"I'd have dropped in and told you, but Kieran was fussing and I was knackered. I don't see what the big shock is. So he gave up drink. It's not like he's Irish."

Assumpta's cheeks burned. "Anyone else know?"

"How should I know that?"

"Not a word to any other customers, Niamh. Clear?"

"What, teetotaling's contagious?"

"Rather not wait to find out!"

Niamh shrugged. "Fine." Her brown eyes darted to the chalkboard menu. "Fish special again?"

Assumpta marched for the kitchen door. "Get used to it!"

Safely out of her friend's sightline, Assumpta leaned back against the counter. It's only business, she assured herself. I'm only worried about business. It would be no different if it were Siobhan or Michael.

She ran the water in the sink for a moment to make her hiding sound purposeful.

He didn't give up drink, she thought. He gave up my pub!

Saturday confessions had run longer than usual, a natural effect of parishioners reflecting on repentance and penance. Peter knew it would taper off as the season wore on, and this thought brought a feeling of anticipatory relief - and an aftertaste of guilt about the same. He should want his flock to stay the course, to keep the spirit of solemnity, even if they returned early to the chocolates or cigarettes or naughty literature they'd forsworn. Still, he supposed it was human nature for their grip to slip with time. He only hoped he could keep the promises he'd made to God and to himself - in both the long and short terms.

As the red Fiesta chugged reluctantly along to Cilldargan, he thought how this might technically count as the second of seven churches. It was something he'd meant to do several years running now, but he had always seemed to trip up on his commitments.

Well, if nothing else, I'll have more spare time this go-round, he thought as he slipped into Father Mac's booth.

"Bless me, Father, for I have-"

"Oh, good heavens, Father Clifford, not again!"

"-sinned, it's been five days since my last-"

"I know, I know, don't you think you're overdoing this?!"

"-confession and...no! No, I think it's barely enough as it is."

"I'm well aware of where your thoughts have wandered and I'm willing to venture a guess that you haven't dealt with them exclusively by sublimation." The older man sounded nauseous.

"Actually I've kept it pretty well together since Wednesday."

"Congratulations," Father Mac spat. "So what have you come to declare?"

Peter wondered if the parish priest treated all his penitents this way. He dearly hoped not.

"I don't know. The dreams haven't stopped and I guess I feel responsible."

"I've advised you."

"Yes."

"You have followed my advice?"

"Yes!"

"Then for pity's sake, exercise a little patience!" he yelled. The irony was lost on Father Mac, if not on his subordinate.

Peter crossed himself again, and left without expecting absolution.