“Yes. I have been very fortunate. Much of the land hereabouts still belongs to the church. I lowered the rents on the whole glebe when Ibecame the incumbent, but ... yes ... I confess, I have too much for my needs.”
“What a trial for you.”
Thomas hung his head, his fingers twisting together. Micha, of course, was quite right. It was bad enough to have so much, and still worse to make an ordeal of it.
“Oh come on,” said Micha, after a moment, his shoulder brushing clumsily against Thomas’s, sending a jolt of heat between them. “God wanted you to have it, right?”
“Actually,” whispered Thomas, admitting rather painfully to a source of private shame, “my father wanted me to have it. He knows the family in whose gift is the living. I did nothing to earn this.”
Micha had been so openly disdainful of Thomas’s easy life, with his gardeners, his cook, and his housekeeper, that he expected nothing but condemnation for this latest confession. Whatever Micha said, however scathing, would have been nothing he had not often thought himself. But, to his surprise, Micha was silent a moment, his eyes locked on Thomas, and then he shrugged. “Well, I suppose they call it ‘preferment’ for a reason.”
Thomas gave a startled laugh. “How can you go out of your way to make me feel terrible and then go out of your way, not two seconds later, to make me feel better?”
“I’m a complicated man. Now where are we going?”
“We’re here actually.”
“The stables?” Micha put a hand on his hip and struck a pose, at once ludicrous and oddly brazen. “You certainly know how to show a fellow a good time.”
Thomas found himself faintly flustered, though he hardly knew why. “Do stop being difficult and come inside.”
“How do you know I even like horses?”
“I don’t. I am merely hoping that you might.”
Micha sighed heavily and trailed after Thomas into the cool interior of the stables. Thomas kept only three horses, though he could easilyhave afforded and accommodated more. But, unlike his brothers, he was not a natural or enthusiastic horseman, and he did not think a country priest had any place maintaining an extensive stable. He took off his hat and coat and flung them onto a nearby hay bale, and then led Micha over the cobbled floor, through a spiral of dust motes and the scents of clean straw, leather, and living things.
“This is Brimstone,” he said, stopping before a fine English thoroughbred with a coat as black as tar.
After a moment, perhaps in spite of himself, Micha reached out a hand and smoothed it over the sleek, strong neck. “He’s a handsome beast,” he said grudgingly. “Interesting choice of name.”
Thomas gave him a wry look. “They say if you can ride the devil, you can ride anything. But he belongs to George. He’s resting here for now. His half-brother Hellfire is still in London. I thought, perhaps, you might like to ride him?”
Micha pulled his hand back abruptly. “I can’t imagine George would appreciate me pawing at his horse.”
“George wouldn’t care. He half-killed him not so long ago, just to win a bet.”
“What?” Micha gave him a mocking look. “Is that disapproval I hear in your voice, Father?”
Thomas glanced away, wanting to hide his anger and slightly ashamed of it. When he spoke, it was with real passion. “It’s simply wasteful, to hurt another living creature for vanity. I think carelessness can sometimes be the worst sort of cruelty.”
“Cruelty is the worst of cruelty,” retorted Micha. “And don’t you think it’s a bit off to get all self-righteous about the mistreatment of animals when there are people you could be wasting your worry on?”
“Oh Micha, it’s the same, don’t you see? It is not our place to divide the world into deserving and undeserving. What would be the value of my kindness, if I believed it gave me the right to treat animals with disregard?”
“I don’t know, it might mean quite a lot to someone who was starving to death, for example. I don’t think the people at the bottom of life’s cesspit really care why you’re doing what you’re doing, or if you’re good, or bad, or basically indifferent. Morality only matters if you’ve got enough to eat.”
“‘A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast,’” murmured Thomas.
“‘But the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel,’ yes, yes, I know that one. Interesting, isn’t it, the way you were saying we don’t get to carve up the world, but this is basically saying an act is only worthy if the right person is doing it.”
“Not at all. It’s saying that the wicked will always have other reasons for performing acts that may initially seem virtuous.”
Micha folded his arms, his eyes catching at Thomas, sharp as fishing hooks. “Now thatiscurious,” he drawled. “So if a man does something that seems like a kindness, it could very well be wickedness if he happened to have, say, an ulterior motive?”
Thomas wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Silence stretched between them, sticky as spider’s silk. His heart felt like quicksand. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he said softly, “that man would be wicked. And his act would be worthless.”
Confusion crossed Micha’s face, and he was the one to flinch. He swung away and peered into the next loose box. “Who’s this, then?”
