Fletcher regarded Father Brennan with a curiously intent gaze as they shook hands, caring little for the firmness that was supposedly telling of a man's character - he was more focused on the casual disinterest, the soft, even manner in which the priest spoke. And so loathe to pry into Fletcher's ramblings about his past. Interesting, that. Priests were typically the nosiest men in quaint villages, rivalled only by the elderly women.

"I searched for the record of the baptism but the church her mother briefly attended unfortunately burned down." As had the Diocese, and well, the entire town. "She is fifteen now. A challenging age but she seems to be adjusting well here. She takes after me far more than I'd like or care to admit. I haven't discussed baptism with her yet, but I will leave it to her to decide if she wishes to." He glanced back up at the windows and the hollow eyes of saints peering down at him as he formulated his next sentence carefully. "I often feel I have little to offer her, and while I have failed her in the past this is something I can give her."

And she needed it more than most, but Fletcher left that out. She had been borne of more than one sin (give or take a commandment or two), and if Fletcher never considered himself a believer, he would for her sake alone.

"But please, tell me about yourself Father Brennan. I would like to know you better before I commit to your congregation."