You're all amazing, you know that? (Big thanks especially to Mcbenzy, whom I find myself trying to emulate more and more with this story. Long way to go before I can claim that ability, of course, but your feedback always turns new lights on in my brain.)

FictionPress's support team is also amazing, and I'm sure I'm not the only one singing their praises after they addressed the new-chapter bug Sunday. They do a fine job, let alone for a free service. Lots of gratitude!

Disclaimer: Any similarity to any actual Wicklow parish is purely coincidental; I don't know Niamh's official canon birthday.

Kevin O'Kelly felt mildly guilty about it, but part of him enjoyed watching his father squirm. Outwardly, he projected an air of pride and support, picking up carrot sticks and chewing gum at Hendley's, offering distractions in the shape of board games and crossword puzzles. Inwardly, he was...well, a bit giddy.

He considered the predicament a win-win; either Da would quit and the house would smell better, or Kevin could make a little money in the Lent pool.

His own sacrifice was going more smoothly. He hadn't touched a comic book any day but Sunday, and he hardly missed it.

All the same, confession was confession, and he knew that everyone sinned every day, so he reported as usual Wednesday after school. Waiting in the pew, he ran through the Deadly Sins, trying to determine which lined up closest with the way he felt.

When his turn came, he stepped into the box and crossed himself.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession." He paused.

"Whenever you're ready," came Father Clifford's voice.

"What kind of sin is Schadenfreude?"

There was a pause. Kevin could have sworn he heard the priest chuckling.

"I'm serious, Father!"

"Forgive me. Where did you learn that word?"

"Mr. Kearney assigned it as extra-credit for spelling once."

"Why'm I not surprised?" Kevin could hear the smile in Father Clifford's voice.

"But it's a sin, isn't it?"

"It's not unlike envy, I suppose. Sort of the backward version of that. How have you been guilty of it?"

"Me Da gave up smoking for Lent."

"And it's funny to see him struggle?"

"Shouldn't be." He picked at a cuticle. "But yeah."

"Okay. Are you teasing him?"

"Trying not to. Trying to cheer him on."

"That's not so bad, then."

"But if he fails, I'll sort of benefit from it."

"How's that?"

"Miss Fitzgerald and I kinda have a bet going."

"You're gambling then?"

"Whole town is!"

"Oh, really?"

"There's a pool going for who's going to break their promise first."

"I see. And you've bet against your father?"

"Assumpta did. I get a cut if she wins."

"Kevin..."

"I shouldn't be gambling, should I?"

"Well, you're not really to blame for this."

"What should I do?"

The priest sighed. "Keep supporting your father. Be patient with him. And if he fails, try not to lord it over him."

"What if Assumpta wins the pool?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?"

"Assumpta, can we ever change the channel?" Padraig moaned.

"Please?" Siobhan begged.

The landlady affected her best wide-eyed naïveté and looked up at the TV, where a bunch of men in zoot suits circled a table, puffing on cigarettes and playing poker. "What's the matter? Don't you like it?"

"No!" they barked together. Brendan chuckled between them.

"Wish I could help," said Assumpta. "Seems we've lost the remote."

"Liar," Padraig grumbled.

"I'm serious. Pint to ease your nerves?"

"Look in the same closet where you keep your whips and chains," Siobhan said, nodding all the same.

"Told you she was a sadist," said Brendan.

Doc Ryan turned to Brian Quigley at the other end of the bar. "Given up anything yourself?"

"Golf," Brian returned.

"It's barely March yet!"

"So?"

"In the weather we've had?"

"Could've happened." Brian said, indignant. "What about you?"

"Caffeine."

"I'll bear that in mind if I need emergency surgery."

Michael shrugged.

Friday breakfast at the Garda house was decidedly plain - eggs in whole-wheat baskets, with not a speck of syrup or jam in sight.

"Niamh, are you getting enough calories to feed the baby?"

"Ambrose, I know what I'm doing! Are you sure you're getting enough...enough...whatever it is you get from your stupid jigsaw puzzles?"

"I'm doing fine," he defended.

Niamh rose to clear her plate, then plucked the baby from his high chair. "Besides, Kieran knows Mammy will fill up on butterscotch pudding tomorrow, and he'll get enough sugar to kill an army. Isn't that right, Kieran?"

The baby let loose a delighted squeal.

Ambrose frowned. She'd been irritable since Pancake Day. "Is there anything I should know?"

"You think I'd hide something from you?" she said, not looking away from Kieran.

"You might."

"Don't be silly. Kieran? Kieran, is your daddy getting paranoid?"

Kieran answered with a mouth bubble.

Ambrose put on his jacket and hat, and left with only a nod as goodbye. Niamh stuck her tongue out at the slam from upstairs.

"We're not going to tell Daddy about the pool, are we? Nor Father Clifford's incredibly dumb idea, right? No we aren't! Right!"

That week's confessional field trip found Father Clifford at St. Alice's in Wicklow.

He mainly knew Father Ben Murphy by reputation - early 40s, glasses and a beard, bit of a live wire, not really known for his solemnity, and generally more relaxed than Frank MacAnally. (Then again, even the statues in the courtyard were more relaxed than Father Mac.) They'd had occasion to meet at a few diocesan functions in the last few years, but interacted little beyond surface pleasantries. Maybe the man's distance from Peter's situation - and his reputed openness - would offer some needed perspective.

Thanks to some corrosion on the Ford's battery terminals, though, Peter arrived only as Father Murphy was leaving his post at the booth.

Father Murphy smiled in recognition nonetheless. "Father Clifford, isn't it?"

"Am I late to confess?"

"Just so, but could I talk you into lighting out for a pint?"

Well, he hadn't given up every pub for the season.

O'Sullivan's was a distant second to Fitzgerald's, as far as Peter was concerned; the selection was less impressive, the layout less navigable, and the corner booth draughtier.

Perhaps he was being unfair. Yes. He made up his mind to adore this place for the next hour.

The men claimed their space with their coats, then made their way to the bar for orders. The bartender emerged, an attractive woman not quite Father Murphy's age, with a square jaw and oatmeal-coloured hair.

"Annie, a black ale for me and a lager for my guest, if you would."

Watching them exchange money and drinks, Peter noticed something he shouldn't. Their hands brushed too much, verging on a caress. Their smiles weren't bashful, but rather almost defiant.

He told himself it meant nothing, and took exceptional care not to spill from his overfilled glass on the way back to their booth. Once seated, his companion looked back over his shoulder without missing a beat. Winking? Whatever he did, Annie nodded back at him, beaming too brightly. No one else in the pub even batted an eye. When Father Murphy turned back to face Peter, he was grinning unabashedly.

"Nothing like your local, is there?" he mused. "Don't know what I'd do without her."

"Yeah," Peter said noncommittally. He glanced back at Annie, who seemed to be entertaining a good-natured ribbing from her own regulars, with more than a few nods toward the priest thrown in. Nowhere in the place did anyone look ashamed. Unease had by now trickled onto his face very slowly; Peter figured he could hide it in his drink a few seconds. An affair? The way everyone carried on, it seemed it was an open secret. Alice, of course she'd be their patron! All of them turning a blind eye, and making no move to do anything about it.

Yet there sat the other priest, calm and relaxed, perfectly content to live a lie. It occurred to Peter that he didn't even feel especially like condemning this man. Still, he might not be the right person to confide in.

"So, Father," he said. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

Daylight burst rudely into the master bedroom at Quigley Manor as the clock radio went off Sunday morning.

"And if anyone can tell us the top three hits on this day in 1976, we have for you a week-long golf holiday package at the fabulous new Hinterlands Resort, sponsored by Tayto," the radio DJ announced, making it sound as if she derived unspeakable pleasure from waiting by a switchboard.

His heart raced as he remembered. Niamh's mother; their first night out since their daughter was born. Parking by the shore, listening to the countdown on the car radio, laughing through mouthfuls of Riesling. He'd memorised the whole top ten. Of course I know them. Like the back of my hand, I know them!

Then his stomach lurched. Lent!

Maybe the trip'll take place after Easter.

"You'll take off on 6 April, and be back just in time for Easter Sunday," she purred.

Brian hit snooze and rolled over in his bed with a groan. So much for his extensive knowledge of '70s music! Fat lot of good it did him now!

Nine minutes later, she was at it again.

"Still no winners. C'mon, big man, we know you're out there!"

Snooze.

Nine more minutes and he awoke to a caller naming two artists who were already dead by '76, and a third who was not yet born.

"Mmm, sorry, no," said the breathy alto. "Still up for grabs, County Wicklow. Get to the telephones!"

Brian ripped the plug from its jack and burrowed under his quilt. He was in no mood for Mass.