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I woke slowly to morning light trying to peek around the drawn curtains in a bedroom warm with the scent of recent lovemaking and the feel of a beautiful young wolf in my arms. Like me, he was shifting gently, not yet awake, not entirely sure he wanted to be. I tried to help him make up his mind by nuzzling the fur at his neck, petting his small but luscious patch of chest fluff. He murred and stretched and made little noises that told me that he was thinking that waking up could be a very good idea after all.

"Morning, my angel," I whispered in his ear.

"Best morning ever," he murmured through a grin that threatened to take up his whole snout. He rolled over to face me, kiss me, lick lazily at my muzzle as I returned the favor. We smelled like each other, which I found eminently agreeable. The whole room smelled like us, and I had a faint fear that perhaps the entire house did. I made a mental note to make sure that we didn't disturb Mrs. Whitson's delicate nose; my... our bedroom was going to need laundry service and more before the day was all done, and I knew that we'd need to see to it.

Meanwhile, however...

Fletcher was happily physical but not particularly sexual, which concerned me only a little. Despite the tales told of adolescents (and my own experiences, filtered through the "adult" mind), he was more hungry for me than merely my body. He was, in a way, much older than however many years he might be, and it occurred to me, with only a little trepidation, that he had discovered sexuality in a horrible way, but that with me, he had discovered love. For those moments, I dared to hope that he had healed even more than we'd thought.

He pushed me gently onto my back and lay upon my chest, looking at me with great mischief in his eyes. "I suppose we'll want breakfast eventually."

I pet his headfur gently, grinning. "Eventually."

Nosing my muzzle gently, he looked in my eyes again. "Thank you, Graham," he said softly. "Thank you for loving me, and thank you for trusting me."

"I'm glad that I could trust myself." I nosed him gently. "I love you, Fletcher."

"Love you, too." He lay his cheek against my chest, his arms squeezing me a little. I returned the gesture with a happy sigh, more than content to take my Zen teacher's advice about being in the moment. Some small part of my mind, ever the list-maker, made a few notes about things that might want doing today, but most of me simply floated, my forepaw making slow, lazy circles in the young wolf's back fur. We were quiet together, perhaps not needing words, perhaps just not having any at the moment. I still had no sense of time, and I was reluctant to look at the clock on the bedside table. The only other clock was my belly, and it was only beginning to let itself be known. I felt that it could wait a bit longer.

That was when the phone rang -- softly, on the bedside table, and only a little louder in the kitchen and study. Fletcher groaned a little in mild annoyance, and I had to smile. "Don't," was his advice. I could hear the smile in it, and he squeezed me gently around my middle.

"That's the official line," I told him. "If it's not God calling, it's probably someone who needs Him."

Fletcher glanced at me as I untangled myself from him. "I guess I didn't think of it that way."

I reached for the headset of the phone, putting a finger to my lips and winking at him. He nodded, regaining his smile. "St. Christopher's, Father Graham speaking."

"Father..." The voice was familiar from having heard it only days ago. "Can you come? She thinks it's time."

"Of course, Samantha." I sat up, glancing around briefly. "I'm afraid I'm only just waking up, but I'll be there as fast as I can. Is Dr. Kerns there?"

"He just left. He doesn't think it's truly urgent; he says it's more like she's... ready now, and she wants to be sure she's spoken to you first."

"I'll be there in half an hour -- quicker, if I can."

"Be safe, Father. I think she'll wait for you." A brief pause, as if she weren't sure what else to say. "See you soon," she managed, and then she whispered down the phone.

I replaced the headset and turned to Fletcher, cupping his face in my forepaws. "That was Samantha Sturbridge. Her mother, Elizabeth, needs me." I paused, looking deep into those eyes, asking for understanding. "Elizabeth is dying. She... Fletcher, I don't know how much religion you've been exposed to..."

"Enough to know that you're needed, as a priest." Those beautiful cobalt blue orbs radiated nothing but confidence and courage. "How can I help?"

"I'll definitely need a shower," I managed a smile. "You know the shirt and pants and all, that I wear for my Friday service? Could you lay out a set on your bed? I'll need a few things from the church, but I can't really tell you where--"

The pup silenced me with a quick kiss. "Shower. I'll get clothes. Go -- we'll get you there."

I kissed him back and dashed for the shower. A touch of paranoia wanted me to wash six times over, for fear of someone catching Fletcher's scent on me. A simple, proper washing is suitable for nearly all occasions; he was not, after all, an over-amorous skunk. Towels, wall-dryers, and another casting upward of thanks for my short Dalmatian's fur, then I padded to the wolf's room to find he'd done me proud. The selection of clothes was complete and perfectly arranged, as if by a valet. My heart plunged into my stomach, as I feared it might have been some behavior forced on him by his former Master. I looked to the wolf, concerned, and he shook his head as if he'd read my mind. "When my dam got up late for work, I'd get things ready for her. Get dressed. I've got toast ready. Juice?"

"Some milk, please, and thank you." I yanked on clothes like some wayward spouse caught at a lover's house, and I almost giggled. In the kitchen, it finally registered that Fletcher had donned some shorts. He served up two slices of buttered toast, set down some raspberry jam (our flavor of the week, so to speak), and then a glass of milk.

"Try to eat slowly," he admonished, as if he were channeling Mrs. Whitson herself. "What else do you need? How can I help?"

Between bites, I managed, "You have helped immensely already." I breathed, paused before the next bite of toast, then bit into it, chewing carefully. Fletcher smiled his approval, and I winked at him.

"You said that there may be things you need to take with you. Can I locate any of them for you?"

A thought occurred. "Fletcher, would you go into my study and look in the bottom right desk drawer? You're looking for something about the size of a doctor's bag, does that make sense?"

"I'll know it when I find it," he grinned. He rose quickly and went to look. I polished off one slice of toast with a slightly larger mawful than recommended. The wolf returned with a black bag about 20x40cm around, 15cm high. "This?"

"That." I wiped my forepaws on the napkin he had arranged for me and took the bag from him. The odd shape is designed for keeping a scapular flat and providing room for other vestments and accoutrements as needed. I didn't use it often, but also like a doctor's bag, I'd kept it properly prepared. Fletcher looked over my shoulder as I made a quick inventory. I glanced up at him. "I'll be glad to explain all this when we have time..."

"I look forward to it." He leaned down, cupping my cheeks in his forepaws, kissing me in a manner both quick and amazingly tender. "Do you have everything you need?"

Nodding, I smiled at him. "I think so. Will you be okay on your own for an hour or so?"

One of his eyebrows rose with eloquent sarcasm, and he said nothing.

I felt my ears flatten a little, even as I managed an embarrassed smile. "The word 'overprotective' pops to mind."

"Finish your milk," he chuckled. "If the official line rings, shall I answer?"

"Are you comfortable with that?"

"I'm your foster pup," he smiled. "Might be good for me to start being at least a little more visible, before your flock thinks you made me up."

"I couldn't dream of anyone better." I stood and kissed him once more. "Thank you for helping."

"Graham, I--" His expression changed into something I couldn't quite read. "I don't know what you need to do for her, but I know she's picked the right furson. Help her."

My heart swelled with the deep love that had first convinced me to take holy orders. I smiled at tenderly at him. "I will, my angel. I truly will."

* * * * * * * * * *

The parish was neither rich nor poor, and it was in no way stingy. They had let the priest before me leave with the "church automobile," as he and his spouse would probably need it at their retirement village, just to get to and from the city conveniently. I am a much younger dog, still fit; to get around the city, a bus pass suited me well, and my hindpaws could take me just about anywhere in the parish. It was my lovely flock who had provided my wonderful Mackintosh coat and other protective gear, and they also invited my opinion on, and then provided me with, a very sturdy bicycle to get around with. It might be as close as I'd ever feel to being a proper English vicar who would go cycling around the small villages and country roads I'd seen on television. This portion of suburbia was quietly self-contained, with most of the houses and streets folding back on themselves enough to make it impractical for a main thoroughfare to plow its way through it. Navigating it with my bicycle was pup's play, and the day was nice enough to lighten the weight of the journey's purpose.

I arrived at Samantha's home quickly. I'd rung the bicycle's quaintly old-fashioned bell three times as I approached, so she was at the front door by the time I'd dismounted. The angeline greeted me warmly, inviting me inside. The house smelled of warm baking, for which Samantha seemed to feel a need to apologize. "Part of it is to keep me busy; she gets a little ornery if I sit with her too long." She managed a small smile. "I think she wants an excuse for some fresh muffins anyway."

Leading me further into the house, she kindly asked if I needed anything; I declined gently, and she knocked on a bedroom door. "Maman?" she called softly.

"Yes, Sammie, I'm quite decent to receive visitors." I could hear the smile in her voice as she continued, "I don't think our good vicar would be interested in our lot anyway."

The younger female expressed a blush under her dark eyes and in the linings of her rounded ears, and we entered together. "In a feisty mood now, are we, maman?"

Elizabeth Sturbridge looked quite sturdy for her 84 years, propped up in her bed against a good number of pillows. Dressed in a simple bed gown, her deep brown fur carefully tended, she favored me with an impish grin which I returned with all good humor. "Precisely the sort of thing that makes any female more attractive," I said. "Or so I'm told."

The elder angeline chuckled and pointed to a nearby chair. "Sit there, my wonderfully wicked young male!" More softly, she added, "Thank you for coming."

After her daughter had left us to ourselves, I sat with the old angeline and looked at her with interest. "Samantha called me here because she said that you felt it was time. If I may say, you look more as if you might be ready to join me for a bicycle ride."

"Only if you do the work; I get to ride on the handlebars." She grinned at me, shaking her head gently. "I've been lucky in many ways, throughout my life. What ails me now is nothing more than body parts tiring of having done their jobs for far longer than the prescribed three-score and ten. There's no sense of pain or dulling of senses, just..." She sighed gently. "Perhaps a sensation like that of a clock winding down, as if today's yowens would know just what that might mean."

"A good point." I let simple intuition speak for me. "You want to tell me something."

Her eyes, dark and deep, held mine. "Our faith did not bring confession with it, when it split from Rome," she allowed, "but there are a few things I'd like to get off my chest. None of it requires reporting for legal reasons, and I'll trust your discretion for the rest."

"You have my confidence, in more than one sense. Should I make it formal and don the scapular?"

"Father Graham," she said softly, gazing at me, or perhaps at something around me, "of all the priests and vicars I've ever met, you are one of the few who carry God with them in all that they do. It is like the divine aura seen in Renaissance paintings, at least to these old eyes. This morning, I feel it from you more than ever."

My lips smiled for me, even as I tried to suppress the shiver that tried to run through me. Did she know something? Could she somehow sense...?

"Three things, good vicar. Three things to tell from my past that no one else knows... and perhaps that you, or someone, need to hear. The first is that I am not who my papers say I am." She smiled softly. "I'm am not the lost Anastasia, I promise you! My husband's name was indeed Nicholas, and I'll soon join him, but before I was Elizabeth Sturbridge, I was Elizabeth Dancy... and before that, Fleur Lavois. Elizabeth Sturbridge nee Dancy is American; Fleur was Canadian, and she was -- to use the expression -- fallen, and all too near the tree.

"I wasn't an angel of any sort," she went on, "but neither was I a devil. If there is 'the Devil,' vicar, it's expressed more in actions than in some single incarnate form. Without family, I was allowed to make a living in the only way that an ignorant female could, in those days or these. I certainly wasn't the first, won't have been the last, and may God help them all. I didn't stay in that life because I didn't stay ignorant... and that was what got me into trouble. I taught myself how to read, you see, and no one thought that I could. That was how I discovered something I wasn't supposed to." She looked at me gently. "I don't know if God minds a female renting out her body to a male when it's the only way she can live, but I don't think He would want anyone -- even that type of female -- to allow yowens barely into their double-digit years to get addicted to drugs, to keep them awake for their 14-hour, seven-days-a-week factory and delivery jobs. Child labor and white powder made a lot of terrible logging and mill-town robber-barons rich."

This time, I did not suppress the shudder, neither did I smile. "What did you do?"

"For a long time, I did nothing. After a while, though, I knew I had to do something, no matter how dangerous it might be. I was lucky, in a lot of ways. Adults liked that white powder, too, and I admit that I sampled it one night, when the pain of uncertainty, inaction, and just living was all too much to bear. Perhaps it was some sort of sin, liking it as much as I did, but it was only one experience. I needed to know it only once to know what it really was: A terrible temptation, Father Graham, in the original sense of both words. Terrible because it made things stop hurting for a while, the most false of hopes, and it would have been so easy to have convinced myself that it wasn't much, or that it would only happen one more time, just one more time, and then I'd stop."

She shook her head. "Lucky. Maybe just a little smart. I was smart enough to know why someone, anyone, especially children, would use it to escape what they could not truly get away from. That was when I knew that I had to do something. I found a way to hang about the males at their secret meetings, bringing drink and food. One night, I read the pages on their table, saw the dates and meeting places that they were worried might be overheard if they spoke them aloud; they called me 'dead above the waist,' didn't care that I looked over their shoulders. I memorized what I could, and I managed to get word to the constables. Days later, I pretended to be as shocked as everyone else over reports of the raid and subsequent arrests in connection with over 40 kilos of a fine white powder."

"That was very brave," I said softly. "Forgive the cynic in me, as I suspect that your actions didn't stop everything... but I also imagine that you may have saved lives that night."

She demurred her thanks with a modest bow of her head. "As you might guess, I realized that I needed to get away from there as soon as my departure wouldn't raise any suspicions. Before I could even begin, I was 'taken aside for a quiet word,' as the head female called it." The angeline sighed, shook her head gently. "I feel as if I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. The males were never around any of the females' rooms long enough to wonder about what might be kept there, nor were they interested in anything other than what we could dispense to them in whatever time they were allotted. Only another female would notice things like books, hidden not quite well enough from particularly prying eyes.

"The old otter seemed to know everything. She told me that she would help me, get me papers to cross the border to the south, give me some money to help get me away. It would take time, she said; we didn't want to make the males suspicious, she said. She said that she was to rescue me, that she was the only one who could help me, and it might take a while, so I'd best just do as she said, no matter what. Just do as she said."

Elizabeth closed her eyes for a few moments. "I did as she said. For nearly two full months, which seemed like forever to a yowen like myself, I did as she said. I had to earn my keep from the males; I had to earn her silence after it was all closed each night, all done with, all alone with her in her room." She looked at me. "That is the second thing that I've never told."

I breathed evenly, nodding gently. "It is not the sexuality that gives me pain, as you might guess."

She too nodded. "I've not been to services in some time, Father Graham, but as you probably know, word of your fostering the young wolf is no secret in the parish. I know little of his story with any accuracy; you know how tales become exaggerated. If you can tell me... how long was he enslaved?"

"Neither of us knows." I explained to her, briefly, what that meant, mentioning too that even he wasn't sure of his age; she took in the tale, her eyes closed, seeming as if she might weep at any moment.

"Another way in which I was lucky," she whispered. "I will remember to be grateful." Opening her eyes, she looked gently upon me. "I know that you will raise him well, Father, and I'm glad that he found you."

She held my gaze, and for another fretful moment, I wondered if she somehow knew more than she was telling. "You said three things, Elizabeth. Would you tell me the third?"

Folding her forepaws in her lap, the angeline considered them for a time. "When you reach a certain age, Father, you begin a process of looking back in judgment of your own decisions. If you're young enough, you look at things to decide if you need to make changes or even amends. It's said that life can only be understood backward, but we must live it forward. Even though that's true, it is also true that, in one's last days, one begins to wonder whether or not those decisions were good ones. I find myself wondering if I can be forgiven one particular sin. Perhaps you can tell me."

I managed a smile. "It seems a rather poor pun to ask if you'd trust my judgment, particularly because judgment isn't in my realm. Do you think you'd trust my opinion, for whatever that might be worth?"

"Fair enough." For the first time, she seemed to falter, then gathered herself with some resolve that I had to admit I found admirable. "Whatever else one might think of the old otter, she was as good as her word. Papers, money, a sack to carry my books, and a discreet ride from town, courtesy of a young beaver who hid me in the back of a lorry until we were near the border. My papers were in order, and he took me across quite legally. He asked only one thing from me in payment: One chaste kiss. It was the first time that an adult male treated me as something other than a thing. His name was Jacob..." she pronounced it_yah-kawb_ "...and he blushed furiously when he asked me. I fulfilled his wish with a full heart, and I have blessed him every night of my life thenceforth."

She smiled a little. "You may get to bury me, Father Graham, so you'll want to know something of me that you could tell to a congregation of mourners. I took the name Elizabeth Dancy when I took my papers as an American. I worked hard to get some sort of proof of my literacy, and even without graduation from a school, I found work in far better jobs than my first profession. I met Nicholas Sturbridge a little over sixty years ago, and as we discovered later, we each set out to woo the other almost from that first day. If we'd made it easy on each other, perhaps our storybook romance would have been less well-written. We married, raised three kits as best we could, and carried each other through horrible hardships and great successes. Nicholas was the investment genius, and though an automobile crash took him from me twenty-one years ago, he left me well off. Our kits, their spouses, and even my grandkits have always been around to help me when needed, and I've been reasonably independent for most of these years. A good life? One to be admired, emulated? Perhaps." A pause. "Or perhaps not. It doesn't take... her... into account.

"It wasn't planned. In so many ways, it wasn't even imaginable. My only experience prior to... her... had been with that otter I mentioned before. Hardly the best of examples. Besides, isn't there some rule about being 'just friends' that's supposed to prevent such accidents?"

"Was it an accident, Elizabeth?" I held her gaze. "The best line I ever heard in a movie was 'I love who I love.' It was said twice. It's meant to remind us that our emotions are our own, and that we have every right to them."

"And if that love isn't ours to have?"

"I don't understand; how do you mean?"

The angeline breathed gently. "We were lifelong friends, she and I. The first friend I made when I began my life in this country. We shared our first rooms together, as friends. We met our future husbands at about the same time, still as friends; we were within an ace of having a double ceremony. Nicholas and Alfred used to joke about how close she and I were. I wonder if they ever knew..."

"So it began before Nicholas had passed?"

"Oh, yes. That, perhaps, is why I am so concerned by it. By definition, it was infidelity on both our parts. It didn't happen often, when our husbands were both alive; it might be a little stolen time on holiday, or when we all lived in the same city, the occasional sharing during their working hours. I wondered, so very often, if it were like that white powder, to some degree. Was it terrible, in its original sense? Was it temptation, in a biblical sense? Were we lying to ourselves, to one another, just once more, it's not very much, and it's only once more..."

"What was it that you felt?"

"We weren't supposed to do such things..."

I leaned forward, catching her gaze and holding it. "Elizabeth... what did you feel?"

Her lip quivered a little. "Father Graham, it wasn't all sexual. Quite a bit, but not all, not by a long chalk. There was something else, something that we didn't find with anyone else. We loved our husbands so very much; that was never in doubt. We were friends, and there was..." She held up a forestalling forepaw. "Yes, Father, we loved each other. It was more than friendship and less than wanting to be spouses. We were there for each other in a way... I don't know if I can explain it..."

"You don't have to, at least not to me. I've never experienced sexual love with a female, but I have loved females who have been a very special part of my life. There is... let's call it a 'texture' to relationships of any kind, and it's different with every relationship, no matter how it manifests. There are times when I think that the only being on the planet who understands what I'm going through is my wonderful housekeeper, Mrs. Whitson."

"I've met her," the angeline smiled softly. "She seems to be keeping you in line well enough."

"More than you know," I grinned. "She's a perfect example, though. I have some male friends who have helped Fletcher become himself, and they've helped me to help him as well... and yet, it's Mrs. Whitson who provided a very different sort of support to both the young wolf and myself, and no small part of it is because she's female. Neither Fletcher nor I plan to have sex enter into that equation, mind you! But there's that texture that I spoke of, which I think we both feel when we talk with our favorite firefox. Her gifts to us are uniquely female, and they simply feel different from the gifts that our male friends share with us. I don't get the impression that she has any trysts with males or females, or that she'd want to discover love with another female, but that certainly doesn't mean that it shouldn't happen between two others. Any two others. You love who you love, and clearly, this female loved you as well. That's what matters. Love is what matters, Elizabeth."

The moment stretched as I realized how much I was talking to myself as well as her. She looked at me as she had some minutes earlier, when she had told me that I needn't put on the scapular. I felt the stirrings in my belly, wondering what she knew, how she knew, then felt the greater stirrings in my heart, and I wondered what I knew. After some little time, I asked, "Are you still in touch with her?"

"She passed a few years ago. She and Alfred were together until his gentle passing seven years ago. The two of them were very good to me after Nicholas was taken from me, even though Alfred had taken a job in another city. They would sometimes travel to visit with me, and when Alfred couldn't join her, she would come visit on her own, and we would spend several days together. After his passing, she and I had a few conversations about combining our lives, finding a house together, making a home together. We never let it happen." A wry smile appeared on her lips. "We were lucky enough to know that what made our relationship work as well as it did was the joy of mutual support across the miles, strengthened by occasional meetings. We didn't even visit each other's homes; we would choose a city to explore for a several days, meet there, rekindle our closeness -- most often, just by enjoying a good cuddle -- and part again, renewed."

"That sounds beautiful," I whispered.

"But it wasn't right."

"Why do you say that?"

"I broke my vows, and so did she. We sinned, and we didn't repent."

I sat back considering, part of my brain flipping through the rulebook, but the entirety of my heart trying to understand why this thing, of all things, stood out in her mind.We sinned, she said, as if the entirety of her story had no other importance, no other significance. I hadn't planned on asking, especially after all this, but the words formed more from feeling than from conscious thought. "Elizabeth, you noted before that we don't practice confession, nor do we practice absolution through the paws of a vicar. You also said that you've not been to mass in some time. Did you wish to partake of the Eucharist?"

Slowly, she nodded. "I've had these things weighing upon me for some time, and I've felt the need to tell someone. Perhaps," she noted a bit wryly, "we should consider bringing back confession after all. It's helped to tell you of my guilt, Father, and if you find me worthy of receiving the Eucharist, perhaps that will let my spirit become light enough to pass on to whatever judgment I'm to receive."

A feeling passed through me that I recognized from that Friday morning service the day after I had first found Fletcher. I don't know that the words would have been fully approved by those high above my station in the church, but I didn't doubt for a moment where they came from. "Elizabeth Sturbridge, I would name you more worthy of the body of Christ than many who might think themselves so. That's just an opinion, mind you; as I've told you, I'm not in an position to pass judgment. That, I believe, is the greatest reason why the Episcopal church didn't bring over confession: Why should one fur, even with some allegedly perfect rulebook, judge whether or not another fur has somehow 'sinned'? And come to that, how do we know that the rulebook is really what God had in mind for us? It might be that a few things got confused in translation, or maybe someone missed a memo."

"Father Graham," the angeline warned with a twinkle in her eye, "that could be taken as heresy. I thought that a priest was consecrated to help the rest of us understand God's will here on Earth."

"And God is love." I smiled at her. "If we forget that, all is lost, and I'm not ready to let that happen yet. I think that love is also about the truth, perhaps even capital-T Truth, and I want to share some of that Truth with you now. You survived terrible things in your life and have come through them wanting only to share love. You acted as best you could to save others, risking your own life to do it. You showed strength and courage to create a new life, to make a lifelong friend, to find yourself a fine mate, to raise beautiful kits and see them right, and for all I've known of you, you're precisely the sort of furson who makes the Kingdom of Heaven exactly what it should be: A reward for lives lived to the best, the fullest, the most loving way that they know how."

"Do you really believe that?"

"Now more than ever. And I'm going to tell you why, because we are about to share in the ritual of the body of Christ." I stood, leaning over to pat her shoulder gently. "Stay just as you are, lovely angeline. I'll be right back."

I found Samantha in the kitchen, removing a batch of muffins from the oven as I entered. I sniffed the air. "Apple, cinnamon, and blueberry have made themselves known here, I daresay?"

"Couldn't find good peaches; maybe next time." She smiled at me, very slightly nervous. "How is she?"

"Quite well enough to sample the goods, I'm sure. Which is her favorite?"

"Blueberry... over there."

"Mmm, perfect." A half-dozen sat stacked in perfect array, perfectly light-golden on top and showing a happily carefree paw with the berries. "I think this lovely sample will do well for us. Might I borrow a knife to cut with, and a plate? I'll try to keep crumbs out of her bed."

"Much obliged," the comely chef smiled. "Father..." She hesitated, sighed. "What you two speak of is private, so I apologize even for hinting. Is there anything I need to know?"

"Yes." I quartered the muffin on the plate and returned the knife to the lucky daughter. "You need to know that your maman is a beautiful soul who loves you even more than she's been able to say."

I returned to Elizabeth's bedroom, the small plate balanced gently upon fingerpads, eminently pleased to see her clapping her forepaws in delight as if she were a tenth her age. "Don't worry," I said with mock seriousness. "Dr. Kerns needn't be told about the mysteries of the church!"

She laughed, and I brought my chair closer to the bed to be with her. "There is something I want to ask of you, Elizabeth. I want to ask what you think of the idea of transubstantiation." I smiled at her. "There's no wrong answer, I promise."

Pausing, the sense of a blush forming inside the skin of her rounded ears and under her deep black eyes, the elderly angeline managed, "It's the idea that the bread and wine on the altar actually become the body and blood of Christ."

Nodding, I noted, "Eddie Izzard observed that such a thing means that our religion is based on cannibalism and vampirism, and he wouldn't be wrong!" Smiling, I looked down at the quartered blueberry muffin on the plate. "When we're not all arguing about how many angels can dance on the head of a pin, the great learned scholars of our church try to come up with something not quite so literal. For some Catholics, the literal transubstantiation is the miracle of the mass; the rest of us began talking of what became known as 'Real Presence' -- that the bread and wine aren't literally changed into flesh and blood, but that the mass creates the means by which the essence of God enters into the food to nourish our spirits as well as our bodies."

"That would seem much more palatable... if you'll forgive the pun."

"God gave us language to communicate, and He gave us puns to let us see how clever we all are!" I chuckled softly, then sobered. "For this very special Eucharist, made from loving paws, given into our loving paws, I wish to share something with you as well." I took part of the muffin into my left forepaw and held it toward her. "Cover my paw with yours. You are part of this."

She did so, with the slightest trepidation, then looked into my eyes.

"Holy God, Holy Christ, Holy Spirit," I whispered softly, "hear our prayer. Let this food nourish us; let it be the holy food of unending life in Jesus' Spirit, especially for Your most faithful and beloved Elizabeth." I paused, holding her gaze. "You've been very careful not to say her name, this female you loved so well for so long. So I want to show you how important love is. Before I gave myself to the priesthood, I was married to a fine male named Merrill. Like your Nicholas, he was taken from me far too soon. I've known loneliness as well, and now, perhaps by a miracle, I have found the most loving young male in all the world. You'd said that your love with this other female wasn't yours to have; I don't believe that. You were told that your love was wrong, that the rules said that you had sinned and not repented."

I gently lifted her forepaw to uncover the blueberry-laden body of Christ that was between us. "Love is not a sin. We love who we love, because God is love, and we are with God." I nodded slowly. "You've already guessed. Like your own love with your unnamed female, it is a private matter, but it is also something incredibly real. It happened last night, Elizabeth. After all our worry and waiting, after all of our talking and feeling and discovering, Fletcher and I took the truest leap of faith -- we became lovers last night. That glow that you saw with me... what was it? Lust? Sin? A criminal offense? A wrong punishable by the laws of this world, or the next, or both?"

Taking the piece of muffin in my paw, I broke it in half. I lifted my portion to my lips, my eyes holding hers, and I intoned, "By all that is holy, I swear it -- I love you, Fletcher." The pastry melted in my maw, sweeter than anything I'd ever tasted, and my spirit felt stronger than ever before. I took the other piece and held it toward the angeline, the slight smile on my lips encouraging her. She brought her maw closer, and the whisper came from her with the trembling of the release of all that had given her pain.

"By all that is holy, I swear it -- I love you... Giovanna..."

* * * * * * * * * *

The bicycle ride home was sweet and easy, as was my heart. The energy that I felt from Elizabeth as I left told me that, if she wished, she might live quite a while longer; I also felt that her body was tired, and that her spirit -- now so much lighter and light-filled -- might be ready to move on. I had not known her well, but what I had shared with her that morning was as rare and beautiful as anything I'd ever known. It sounds insane, or even insulting, to say that I would be proud to bury her. What I would be is proud to have the honor of overseeing the laying to rest of her body, knowing that her spirit would be with each and every person who would mourn her, touching each tenderly before it would be travel to be with her Nicholas, and with her Giovanna, and without doubt Alfred would be there as well. They would at last know all about the love that they had experienced in this world, and they would experience yet more in the next.

As I eased into the back of the vicarage, curving in a long slow arc toward the kitchen door, I rang the bell as I usually did for Mrs. Whitson, when she was there. As Fletcher had said, it was time for him to be fully a part of this household. (Yes, my heart did one of those happy flip-flops in my chest as the thought blossomed for me.) I put the bike carefully in its place in the shed next to the house and went inside through the kitchen. Too early for lunch; the scent that caught my nose was of laundry soap, and I felt something other than my heart wanting to do a few flip-flops. I had to promise myself that I wouldn't do anything to require us to wash the bedclothes twice, if only to avoid having the parish budget for cleaning materials go into the red.

Only a few seconds after I got myself inside, a streak of ash gray came out of the hallway to run smack into me, knocking be back half a step. The wolf's arms wrapped tightly around me as if we'd been apart for a month instead of perhaps 90 minutes. I laughed softly, holding him close to me, smiling at his enthusiasm, until I realized that his breath was catching as if sobbing. I pet his headfur as he pressed his cheek against my chest. "Fletcher? What is it, love, what's wrong?"

"Glad you're back," he said, trying to control his breathing.

"I'm here now. Can you tell...?"

He raised his head and looked into my eyes. "Is your parishioner okay? Did you see her?"

"Yes. I think she's feeling better for having talked with me. She'll be okay, and so will her family. I'm more worried about you now. What is it, my angel?"

"Remembering." The beautiful cobalt blue of his eyes shone with embryonic tears, but his voice was more steady than I could have credited. "When you told me someone's mother was dying... After you left, I started thinking about my dam. Thinking what I could remember about her... her face, her fur, her scent, her voice. Things started to come back."

He sniffed once, steadied himself as I caressed his ears softly in a way he had taught me only half a day before. I dipped my chin a few centimeters, nodding for him to go on.

"She's dead, Graham. My dam died that summer, August sometime. She had been sick, and she died. And my sire... I don't think he wanted me much. I think he..."

The wolf gulped, trying to form words that, when he spoke them, made my blood run cold.

"I think he sold me."