"I may come to a service, then," he admitted. He preferred inspiration to condemnation. Besides, his leg was starting to throb again, and he probably needed to get off of it soon. He doubted Cormac would tell him to stay off of it unless he actually needed to.
"Actually," he said, smiling, "what's your favorite sermon? I'll come to that one." She could tell him when it was, and then he could come, and all would be well. She seemed nice enough, and maybe a little lonely, but that could always just be his imagination. He had the habit of assigning loneliness where it didn't exist.