She thought about their story as though it were a tale being told at the Swan—she had heard such stories, leavened with ale, so often before. Usually, Temperance knew, there came a moment in the drunken teller’s tale when the story took a sudden turn for the worse. Slam went the teller’s tankard down on the table, and the pink-faced listeners gasped; there was no going back. This was that moment, she felt, as she summoned Pete to ferry her across. She had told the vicar something she shouldn’t have, and now there was no going back.
