"Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen." Avril's eyelids flew open. "More coffee?" she asked brightly, leaning forward toward the table where their mugs were sitting.

 "No, I'm fine thanks," responded Vincent from where he was happily reposing on Avril's sofa. He admired the trapezoidal shape of her back sheathed in white cotton that presented itself to him when she picked up her mug, then felt a pleasant satisfaction when she returned to her position beside him. He reached over to point at the rosary she was holding in her other hand. "Now see after ten of those, there's this other bead. That's for the 'Glory Be'."

 "And you say that one cause you're so glad to be done with all the 'Hail Mary's'," Avril joked.

 "Pretty much," agreed Vincent with a warm smile. He was glad she hadn't lost her sense of humour. It had been quite a blow to her psyche to find out that Garrett had bought the curate's house to use as a weekend getaway. She seemed unable, or unwilling, to assimilate the information, though, rejecting any discussion of it. It was also telling that she hadn't left the safety of the yard since she had found out. Vincent intuited that she was afraid of running into Garrett or Rosie, even though to his knowledge neither of them had been sighted in town. Paul had been able to find out the name of the buyer from Lucius Cattermole, and Vincent had found out from him. Vincent wondered what in the world Garrett Burridge was up to. Was he completely oblivious to how his and Rosie's presence would affect Avril? Or was he possibly trying to get back together with Avril? Vincent found that that prospect disquieted him even more. Careful, Vince, he warned himself. Are you more concerned over the state of Avril's heart, or of your own?

 Avril had agreed to let Vincent give her a refresher course in the recitation of the rosary. She had learned the prayers long ago in catechism instruction, of course, so the words and rhythms were familiar to her, but she hadn't said them in twenty years. Now that she was hearing and saying them again, there was something comforting in them, as if she were returning home.

 Not that her home had been a particularly religious one; it had simply been socially expected that she and Rosie be confirmed. No one in her family, from her parents down, was much of one for organized religion. It all seemed too rigid, there was so much that was expected of one. Go to Mass once a week, memorize everything, confess your sins, speak now, be silent then, stand up, sit down, kneel, genuflect, cross yourself this way, touch this, kiss that, don't let the wafer touch your teeth, it just went on and on. She hadn't ever really thought about God; as a child, the concept had been simply too abstract. As a teenager and young adult, she had been too busy with horses and boys to waste a thought on theology; she hadn't needed Him then. Then had come the parties and the alcohol, Garrett, and the rest.

 So what was it that had made her say yes when Vincent had suggested showing her how to use the rosary he had given to her? Certainly the prospect of spending time alone with him. He made her feel confident, important, just happy. She found herself looking forward to every appointment they made; those were oases of calm and comfort in the midst of her ever-increasing financial, professional, and personal pressures. She wanted to flee them all. In the past, she would have sought refuge in the bottle. Now she was stronger, more determined. She had something to work for, something to protect. So she sorted her priorities and dealt head-on with those things that wouldn't be put off any longer. The rest would have to wait. Like Garrett. For him to pull this stunt now was exactly what she didn't need. But it was typical. He was headstrong and impulsive, like her, and when he saw something that he wanted, he used his wealth and clout to get it. She didn't have that advantage, she had had to rely on her looks, her guts and hard work.

 She snuggled back into the soft cushion and regarded the dull brown beads that lay across her hand and knee. She had been caught off-guard when he had presented them to her. 'Because I promised you.' Those words had spoken to her soul. Garrett had promised her, too. But what had come of those promises, she thought bitterly.

 The thought of Garrett made Avril restless. This whole thing with the rosary seemed senseless. She rested her coffee cup on her thigh and clicked the beads distractedly against each other. "I don't know," she said apologetically, "this just isn't me."

 Vincent noticed her sudden change of mood. "It's whatever you make of it," he said. "Think of it as an alternative to counting to ten," he suggested.

 "Scuse me?"

 "Whenever you feel like you want to blow your top, say a quick Hail Mary to yourself."

 Avril wasn't sure if that would really do the trick, and she proposed half in jest, "Or when I feel like I want a drink?"

 Vincent was agreeable. "Sure if it helps you."

 Avril was curious. She cocked her head to one side and asked, "Is that what you do? Say a prayer when you get the thirst?"

 "Sometimes. But it doesn't really help me to suppress those feelings."

 "What?"

 "What I mean is, I have to accept that it's a part of me." He put his hand on his chest and said seriously, "I am an alcoholic. If I forget that, I'm one step closer to losing the battle." He rested his hands on his knees, sat up and leaned over closer to Avril, looking into her eyes. "But as long as I accept that craving, and I know you feel it, too, as long as I accept it and make it mine, then it doesn't rule me. I'm the master, not the slave."

 Avril held his gaze steady. She could feel the power of his words, the conviction behind them. But she also felt that he wasn't just talking about a craving for alcohol. She wondered if he felt that other longing as well. He had told her that night at Brendan's house that he hadn't been tempted by a woman since he had given up drinking, but maybe that's what he meant, that he had achieved control over those feelings by accepting them and thus making them no threat to him. Her fingers tingled with the desire to reach out and touch him. She quickly looked down and clenched her hands around her coffee cup, keeping the rosary wound around one hand.

 "Do you think that works for other things as well?" she asked, wondering if her cheeks were as red as they felt.

 "Like what?"

 Avril looked off to the side. She was getting into an area that she didn't feel comfortable discussing with Vincent. Because it involved him. "Like, other feelings." She rubbed her thumbs over the smooth porcelain and tried to keep her voice steady. "Feelings you have but can't act on. Or feelings you wish you didn't have."

 "Well I've heard it works for chronic pain," he offered lamely, knowing that wasn't what she meant. Vincent looked down at Avril's hands. He could tell she was getting discomfited. He wanted to reach out to her, soothe her nervous fingers with a gentle touch, a gesture that he could have used with any other parishioner, but he had to be especially careful with Avril. She was jumpy and skittish, and he had been burned the night of the foaling.

 He studied her face, trying to read her thoughts. He reckoned she was talking about Garrett. Maybe she still loved him. Or maybe she had never been able to let go of her love for him, even though it was dead. As a last possibility, he considered that she might have dark, violent feelings toward Garrett, or Rosie, or both. He had never known her to become physically aggressive, neither toward animals nor toward people, so he discounted that idea for the moment, but made a note to keep it in mind.

 Avril could sense his eyes on her. Her heart was beating faster. He was still leaning forward, and his black-clothed leg was just millimeters from hers. She tried to hold perfectly still. She could smell the blue and spicy smell of his after-shave, deodorant, shampoo, she didn't know what, but she recognized it as his. She felt her skin start to prickle. All at once, she bolted forward, clattering her cup onto the table as she stood up.

 Vincent reflexively sat back to avoid having their heads collide. He was startled, both by the sound of the cup and by her sudden movement. "What?" he asked with concern.

 Avril tried to respond lightly, pushing her hair back behind her ears. "Nothing, nothing." She hadn't meant to be quite so abrupt. She had just had to get away, to change the chemistry of that moment. She stepped around the table and turned to face Vincent. She smiled awkwardly and gestured over her shoulder toward the yard. "I just...thanks for stopping by. I have to get back to work."

 "Sure, OK," Vincent agreed, bewildered. He stood up, too. "Was it something I said?"

 "No no no, I just realized how late it was getting," she lied. She folded her arms, still clutching the rosary, and looked at her feet.

 "Avril, if there's something that's bothering you, I hope you can tell me about it." He could tell that something in their conversation had struck a nerve with her. But every time she got close to the core of her troubles, she pulled back. Patience, Vince.

 Avril nodded and looked down. Maybe she should just get it over with, she had to either tell him or stop letting him come around. But if she told him, he'd stop coming around anyway. She cleared her throat.

 "Maybe another time," Vincent said gently. He started toward the door.

 Avril hesitated. "No. Wait."

 Vincent stopped and turned back toward Avril. He watched her expectantly.

 She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. A knock sounded at the door. They both silently cursed whoever it was.

 "Do you want me to--?" Vincent asked, pointing toward the door.

 Avril raised one hand. "No. Wait. Don't move," she said through her teeth on her way to the door. She knew that the moment was past, but now maybe she'd have a minute to think of what she actually wanted to say to him. Her heart was still pounding when she opened the door. It almost stopped a second later.

 "Hello Avril," Garrett greeted her stiffly.

 Avril stared at him, open-mouthed. Finally she recovered enough to demand, "What are you doing here?"

 "Nice to see you again, too." Garrett gave her a tight smile.

 Avril looked behind him. His silver Alfa stood proudly in the yard next to the Granada with the roof down. "Bring your girlfriend?" she inquired pointedly.

 "If you mean Rosie, no, she didn't come down with me," he responded calmly.

 "Smart girl," she said with narrowed eyes.

 "Look Avril, I know news travels fast around here, so you must have heard that I've bought a place in town."

 "I couldn't care less," Avril hissed. He thought he was so superior, breezing in and out of her life like this, being so calm and so forgiving. It made her bristle with vitriol.

 "Hey, come on," he cajoled. "You weren't like this when I saw you last time I was down."

 It very briefly passed through Avril's consciousness that this would be exactly the time to say that Hail Mary, but instead she growled through her teeth with increasing volume, "The last time I saw you, I wasn't aware that you were sleeping with my sister!"

 He looked up toward the eaves. "I didn't come here to discuss Rosie."

 "Oh no? And why not? You've obviously discussed me and my failings enough with her!"

 Garrett stepped back, shook his head and looked around. This wasn't going well. He had come here with a simple business proposal, one which he had been sure Avril would welcome, and she couldn't get beyond this story with Rosie. Sure it had been over three years. From somewhere inside the apartment, he heard a deep male voice say, "Avril?" Garrett's attention snapped back to Avril. Who did she have in there with her? He could hear footsteps approaching.

 Vincent had been waiting in the living room, wondering what Avril had been about to say. She had mentioned having feelings that she didn't want and couldn't act on. Did she not want those feelings because she couldn't act on them? She certainly didn't have a chance of getting back together with Garrett at this point. Or were they destructive feelings, feelings that were both socially and morally inacceptable, and that made her feel ugly and bad? From where he was standing, he heard the man's voice in conversation with Avril but was unable to place it. However, once he heard Avril screech, "...sleeping with my sister," he quickly realized that she might need some moral support.

 "Avril?" Vincent entered the hallway. "Everything all right?" He walked over and stood behind her in the doorway. He was about to put his hand on her shoulder in a gesture of solidarity and comfort, but was able at the last second to catch himself. The visitor was a well-groomed man in a leather jacket whom Vincent didn't recognize. He reached around Avril and held out his hand. "G'day mate," he welcomed Garrett, giving him a big shark-toothed smile.

 Garrett did a double-take. He identified the stranger as a priest by his collar, and as an Australian by his accent, but what in the world was he doing in Avril's apartment, calling her by her first name, and playing the protector? And now he noticed that Avril had a rosary dangling from one hand. He didn't immediately return Vincent's greeting. He had no idea how to act around a Catholic priest. Was he supposed to kiss his ring or something?

 Avril took some malicious pleasure in Garrett's hesitation. "Vincent, Garrett Burridge. Garrett, Father Vincent Sheahan." She stared triumphantly at Garrett and raised one eyebrow.

 Garrett took up Avril's challenge and gripped Vincent's hand. The two men looked each other in the eye, both announcing to the other through his body language that this was his territory now. Whether by that they meant Avril, the yard, or Ballykissangel, neither one would have been able to say for sure.

 "Garrett Burridge," Vincent smiled oilily as he dropped Garrett's hand. "Avril's ex-husband," he added, thus informing Garrett that Avril had reported on him in great detail.

 Garrett found himself at a disadvantage. He fixed Avril with a piercing stare. "I didn't know you had found religion." He glanced at the rosary. "Part of your recovery?" he asked with open curiosity.

 Avril wasn't sure how to answer that. As far as she knew, they hadn't really touched on religion until today, but she had to admit that he was helping her in a recovery of sorts, not from alcoholism, but from her self-imposed personal solitude. She tried to nonchalantly hide the rosary behind her back. "No, well, Vincent is more of a friend," she finally stammered.

 Garrett raised his eyebrows in amused surprise at Vincent. Vincent opened his mouth, about to clarify what Avril had said, then looked down at her, saw the stubbornness in her jaw and the challenge in her eye and reconsidered. What she had said was only the truth. Vincent returned Garrett's look with an amused expression of his own.

 "Vincent?" Garrett registered the informal form of address. Maybe that's how you talked to priests nowadays. Not being Catholic, Garrett had no idea. "Well. That's nice for you," Garrett replied to Avril noncommittally, keeping his eyes on Vincent.

 "Is that what you came for? To check up on my 'recovery'?" Avril gave the last word a sarcastic emphasis, to communicate to Garrett that she was long since back to full strength and that he was sorely mistaken in assuming that she had any need of help from anyone. She wanted to be cruel and hard toward Garrett, but found that her heart wasn't in it with Vincent standing right behind her.

 Garrett shifted his gaze to Avril. "No. Actually, I came to talk shop. Maybe I should come back."

 "No mate, here, it's no bother," Vincent said generously. "We can continue another time, right Avril?"

 "Um yeah, sure," she said uncertainly. Continue what? The catechism or the revelation? She reckoned that would have to be up to her.

 "Unless you want me to stay," Vincent offered, noting her hesitation. Maybe she didn't want to be left alone with Garrett.

 Well of course Avril wanted Vincent to stay, but at the same time she wanted to show Garrett that she didn't need to rely on anyone else. "No, it's all right," she said clearly.

 "All right," Vincent agreed. He stepped out the door past Avril. "Good to have met you, Garrett," he said heartily, holding out his hand once more.

 "Right, you too, Vincent," Garrett said, squeezing Vincent's hand harder than was perhaps necessary.

 Vincent trotted down the steps and over to his car. He paused to admire Garrett's car. "Nice set of wheels," he called up to Garrett. "Maybe you'll let me take her for a spin sometime?"

 Garrett didn't really feel inclined to let that smarmy cleric get behind the wheel of his car, but he just called back, "Thanks," and waved at him before turning back to Avril. "Can I come in?" he nodded toward the interior.

 Avril wasn't about to let Garrett invade her private space. She quickly hung the rosary on one of the hooks behind the door. "You said you had some business to discuss?" she asked pointedly as she stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her. She waved to Vincent as he drove off, then folded her arms and started walking across the yard toward the stables.

 Garrett followed her, his hands in the pockets of his tailored woolen trousers. "I told you the last time I saw you how impressed I was with how you were running this place."

 "Yeah, you told me lots of things. Except you forgot to mention who your girlfriend was," she said dryly.

 Garrett ignored that. "I'd like to bring two of my horses down and board them here."

 Avril stopped in her tracks and stared hard at Garrett. "Since when have you bought any racers?" Her interest shifted quickly from Rosie to Garrett's horses.

 "Not racehorses. Just my polo ponies. I don't expect you to train them, just basic care and exercise. I trust you to give me a fair price."

 "I don't know--" This was certainly a twist. Avril was caught completely off guard.

 "I can see you've got the room," he said, nodding toward the empty stables behind her.

 "That's just temporary," Avril reassured him, even if she wasn't sure herself. Business had been suffering since George and Mrs. Forbes had pulled out their horses. And with The Cat still on the sick list and unable to race, she was pretty much desperate for any sort of income at all. But she certainly didn't want Garrett to know that. And she wanted even less to actually be dependent upon Garrett to keep her head above water. However, she had to admit that, aside from the income, it would just look better for there to be more horses at the yard, more work going on, more deliveries, more people coming and going. Busyness equals business.

 "Well how about this," Garrett suggested. "If you get any interest from other owners and need the space, I'll pull my horses out to make room for them."

 "It's not just that," Avril objected, "these are racing stables. How's it going to look for a couple of polo ponies to be hanging around."

 "There goes the neighborhood?"

 "I mean I can't just let any old nag rest her hooves here," she said haughtily.

 "Are Mr. Tibbs and Steely old nags?" Garrett asked with a twinkle in his eye. He thought that Avril might have a soft spot for those two.

 Avril remembered the two horses fondly. In fact, Garrett had been riding Mr. Tibbs in a chukker when she had seen him in saddle for the first time. He had cut a dashing figure, certainly, but she had been more impressed with his masterly horsemanship. It had been like watching a centaur. Avril considered that Mr. Tibbs and Steely hadn't been yearlings even then.

 "So is this a retirement village then is it?"

 "What?"

 "Putting them out to pasture."

 "Not at all," Garrett frowned. "They've still got plenty of good fight left in them. It's just that I'll need them to train on when I'm down here on holidays."

 "So it's true then. You have bought the place in town." Not that she had doubted it. Vincent had the information from Paul and she was certain that he wouldn't have set rumours like that loose without some hard facts.

 "I've always liked the area," he said, looking around at the cerulean sky. "It has nothing to do with you," he assured her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye.

 "No I'm sure it doesn't," Avril replied snidely, although she wasn't really all that sure. She just couldn't figure what he was up to. She couldn't believe that he might actually be making a play for her again.

 "Rosie was dead set against it, but she isn't the one signing on the dotted line," he smiled tightly at her.

 "Well she hasn't always had the best judgment," Avril sneered. She meant that to be a dig at him, of course, but then realized that it also sounded as if she agreed with his decision to buy. Oh well, can't have it both ways.

 "Well look, I don't want to keep you. You must be incredibly busy," he said, politely ignoring both her comment and the complete lack of activity around them.

 "Yes, I am, I have," she gestured over her shoulder, "paperwork to catch up on." That was certainly the truth!

 "So you'll let me know about the horses." He reached into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a flat silver case. He snapped it open took out a business card, and held it out to Avril between his first two fingers. "You can leave a message on my voice mail, or on my email. Otherwise I'm pretty hard to get hold of."

 Avril took the card and looked at the familiar names and numbers. "I remember," Avril smiled to herself. Some things never changed.

 Vincent stopped at Fitzgerald's to change shirts before going over to St. Joseph's for confessions. It really irked him that Kathleen had managed to finagle him into extending the hours for confession. Most of the time he sat there alone, twiddling his thumbs. He'd have to talk to her about cutting back again. He didn't want to do it without informing her first because of the promise he had made to be more charitable toward her, but he reckoned that if he sweet-talked her first, maybe even making it seem like her idea, that she'd surely see the sense in it and not give him a hard time.

 Life here wasn't anything like in Brazil, he thought for about the millionth time. No one there would have batted an eyelash if he had announced that confession would be heard only from four to five in the morning on alternate Thursdays. They would simply have gotten up early (or not gone to bed at all) and lined up humbly awaiting the Lord's absolution in a stumbling Portuguese that many of them didn't understand anyway. With plenty of cachaça to keep them warm. And to share with Vincent afterwards, of course.

 Five years living on the edge of the rain forest, among the peasant farmers of the swamps around Cuiabá, had both turned him into a man and spoiled him. On the one hand, he had had to give up harping on his lofty political and social ideals in favor of laboring, literally, side by side with the indigenous people to achieve the most modest standards of hygiene, health care, and nutrition. An outsider might have said he was more of an aid worker than a priest; he didn't hold many catechism classes or organize many pilgrimages on air-conditioned buses, but his hands-on attitude had earned him the respect of the people, and they sought him out when they were depressed or ill, when they were marrying, giving birth, or dying, for his blessings, his prayers, and simply for his company.

 On the other hand, he had gotten used to being the unchallenged authority. His word was God's, in the eyes of the villagers. Not that they were a simple folk. On the contrary, they were as sly, clever, wily, intelligent, sneaky, and humourous as any Australian (or Irishman, as he was finding out). And forgiving. They truly lived the maxim, God will forgive whom He will forgive, but of you it is required to forgive all men. In matters of religion, they had such an absolute, unyielding faith that he considered himself blessed to have had the opportunity to live among them and serve them.

 He strolled across the sunlit street toward the church. Seemed a shame to spend an afternoon like this cooped up in a tiny cubicle. As he neared his former residence, he noticed Garrett's silver car parked out in front. He looked around, but couldn't see any sign of him. Maybe he was inside? He glanced at his watch. Who would care if he were a little late? He ran his finger along the gleaming detailing of the sports car. If his life had taken a different turn...

 He looked up at the little house. No sign of movement or lights inside, but then it was hard to tell with the sun shining so brightly outside. He tapped his fingers on the hood of the car, then walked leisurely up the path and knocked on the bright red door. He stepped back and looked at the outside of the house. Nothing seemed to have been touched. He was about to give up when the door opened.

 "Vincent the priest," Garrett looked slightly surprised to see him, but not too much. "Nice of you to stop by. Courtesy call?" he asked politely.

 "Yeah, seeing as we're neighbours now," Vincent began, pointing up at the church.

 "Well. I wouldn't go that far. It's just a holiday home," Garrett said modestly.

 "Used to be mine," Vincent mentioned brightly.

 "Excuse me?"

 "I say I used to live here," Vincent explained with a cheshire cat grin. Just to get Garrett's reaction to sleeping where he used to sleep.

 "Is that so?" Garrett had certainly heard that from the bank manager, but didn't let on. "Well is there anything you'd like to have back?" He graciously stepped back from the door and gestured toward the interior. "The place came furnished, but I'm going to have to start from scratch. Can't use any of it."

 "Don't give it a second thought," Vincent said dismissively. "I've already cleared out my personal things. And seeing as how I'm renting a room over the pub," he nodded toward Fitzgerald's, "I don't think I'll be able to take advantage of your generous offer." He also didn't think Garrett would go for the idea of Vincent as a tenant.

 Garrett nodded agreeably. "Well, in that case..." He put his hand on the door, about to say good-bye, but Vincent wasn't about to let him off that easily.

 "Hey, how did your meeting with Avril go?" he inquired.

 "Not as well as yours, I'd imagine," Garrett said smoothly, dropping his hand from the door. He could see the interview wasn't over yet.

 "Excuse me?" Vincent said, indicating that Garrett was out of line with that remark, as he knew perfectly well what Garrett had said, and implied.

 "Nothing," Garrett assured him. "We left it open."

 "It's just that she was pretty touchy about your last visit," Vincent said.

 "I never would have come down with Rosie if I'd known she was here," Garrett said sincerely. "I never wanted to hurt her."

 "But now you're planning on being around more often," Vincent said skeptically, indicating that he didn't quite follow Garrett's logic.

 "I'm sure Avril appreciates your concern," said Garrett sympathetically.

 "I do consider her a friend as well as a parishioner," Vincent tried to explain his interest.

 Garrett nodded and looked down, digesting this information. Then he looked Vincent in the eye. "How is she? I mean, how is she really?" Garrett asked.

 Vincent could see that Garrett was truly concerned for Avril's well-being. He didn't believe that Garrett was doing anything purposefully to hurt Avril. While this did make him more sympathetic toward Avril's ex-husband, he also felt a surge of rivalry that surprised him and which he quickly worked to suppress.

 "Better, I think," Vincent confided.

 "Good," said Garrett. "You know, I think we both want the same thing."

 Vincent froze and stared at Garrett, unsure whether to respond. It wasn't clear to him whether Garrett was accusing him of anything with that comment.

 "To see Avril healthy and happy," Garrett finished his thought.

 Vincent let his breath go. "Yeah, yeah, absolutely," he grinned. Then he pointed up toward the church. "Um, listen, I'm scheduled to hear confessions."

 "I'm not Catholic," said Garrett.

 "No, I didn't mean-- No, that's all right," Vincent smiled, stepping away from the door. "Listen, any time you want to stop by, for whatever, you know," he stumbled through his offer.

 "I'll know where to find you," said Garrett, glancing up at the church.

 Later that evening, Vincent sat alone in the darkened church. He spread his arms out over the back of the pew, stretched out his long legs in front of him, and leaned his head back. He studied the curved beams of the vaulted ceiling, just barely visible in the yellow light given off by the hundreds of candles burning around him. His eyes felt dry and his head heavy. He slouched down a little more so that he could lean his head against the back of the pew, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply.

 This place, this town, this church, this was his home now. For better or worse. He knew that the Bishop and Father Mac both had their eye on him, but he didn't want to run away from himself anymore. In his first parish, in a well-heeled suburb of Sydney, he had made trouble by accusing the parishioners of greed, pride and hypocrisy. He realized now that, whatever faults they might have had, he was the one who had been greedy, proud, and hypocritical. Greedy for attention, proud of his status, and hypocritical in accusing them of being uncharitable when he had had nothing but scorn for them in his heart. He had been so naive, with a belly full of fire and nothing to burn.

 But rather than face up to his own shortcomings, he had pressed on, getting a posting to South America. He had had visions of becoming the next Che Guevara, leading the downtrodden underclasses to revolution and freedom, or at least garnering the Nobel Peace Prize for his devoted service. But things had turned out differently. Although he had done a great deal of honest work and good service among the communities he had been assigned to, once again, his ego had gotten the upper hand. But rather than stay there and mend the lives he had torn apart, he asked to be re-assigned back to Australia. The Bishop in Brasilia hadn't known the entire story of what had happened in the Brazilian hinterlands, but he had recognized at the very least that Vincent needed a break, if only to get his problem with alcohol under control.

 Vincent thought painfully of the bundle of letters, written on thin blue paper, that he kept hidden in the dresser. That was his reminder of what his selfishness could do. Now he wondered whether he were heading down that same path again. If only he had someone he could really talk to. He wished Barry were still around, but he and Lyn had long since returned to Australia, and this wasn't the sort of conversation that one could have over the telephone.

 Avril turned off the desk lamp and pushed her chair back from the computer. She had been going over the figures and decided that she would have to accept Garrett's proposal, for better or worse. She was starting to see it as a challenge, to deal with him on a professional level and show him that he had no hold on her. She was his equal, and she wouldn't let a petty personal injury interfere with her dream of running a racing stables. It would be a good exercise in self-control for her. Self-control. Now there was something she had been using a lot of lately.

 She reflected on Vincent's words from earlier that day, '...as long as I accept it and make it mine, then it doesn't rule me. I'm the master, not the slave.' What would happen, she wondered, if she accepted her feelings for Vincent, rather than trying to push them down into the dark depths of her personal purgatory? Wouldn't it hurt her, to live with...what, love? Lust? Infatuation?...knowing that they could never be together? She stood up and walked over to the door. She gently took down the wooden beads that she had hung there earlier. She gathered them up and pressed them to her cheek, feeling the cool little bumps quickly turn warm against her skin. That was what Vincent meant to her: warmth. She stood there, alone in the dimly lit room, accepting the comfort and warmth that Vincent wanted to give her.