Two hours. Malachi had scraped together two hours of sleep after his spontaneous swim in the river the night before, which was roughly two hours more than he had expected to get. The minutes spread themselves thinly throughout the rest of the late-night-early-morning hours after he had walked Mable back to the hotel, but he was grateful for each one.

It was only his fourth time or so conducting morning mass for St. Hilda’s congregation. He had been there a few days longer, but he had left a few of them for Father Richards – he intended to share their duties as equals, after all, despite whatever measure of authority he had been granted over the younger priest in accepting this position. All too easily could it have been Malachi with his privileges stripped away.

Besides, he had not fully… found his voice yet. Not for this church. It always took him several days to get a proper feel for what they truly needed to hear, and what he could do to best serve them.

This morning, however, the priest carried himself with confidence before his new parish. He was quick, but did not rush through the rites; authoritative, but not unkind. There was a nervousness that came with every new placement, but the Eucharist? From the enthusiastic way that he conducted it, it would not have been a stretch to assume that he could have recited every word of it backwards. That he would have, if given the chance.

By the time it was over, and his final blessing had seen most of the attendees out, Malachi stood at the foot of the few steps up to the altar. He maintained a polite smile as a few parishioners insisted on lingering near, expressing- greetings? Praise? Complaints about Father Kemble? He couldn’t even tell, it was all so mixed together.

The young couple standing to his left had plastered on their smiles mid-service, and they had not let them drop for more than a few seconds since. They were to be married soon, as they had told him immediately after the concluding rite, and naturally (as they’d put it) wished for him to be the one to conduct their ceremony. Father Richards was great, they’d said, but Father Brennan just felt right.

The way they’d looked at him when they said that was rather telling. He gave an awkward laugh and thanked them for their trust before pretending like he’d heard someone else call for him.

(Why was it always so hard to just stay on the holiest path? A curse upon that awful, wonderful tradition that was granting communion to a parish on their knees. It should have been an excommunicable offense, for how many sinful thoughts it encouraged.)

Thankfully for the struggling addict priest, a voice did address him soon after and he did not have to pretend for long.

Praise the Lord.

He stopped himself from making the sign of the cross as he turned to address the siblings, his smile having eased into something more genuine.

“Edmund. Pleased to see you both here,” Malachi greeted first, hands folded neatly behind his back.

“Don’t worry, you did not interrupt,” he assured, despite the fact that their entrance kind of… had. It had not been an unpleasant distraction though. He was pleased to see them. He focused on Mable for a moment when she spoke up, though her quiet demeanor certainly contrasted with her excitement the night before.

“Hello Mable,” he returned, “thank you. How are the two of you doing?”

There was something about Edmund that reminded Malachi of himself. When he was younger – much younger – his eyes had strayed similarly from the gazes of those he met. Nowadays there was no room for such discomfort in his life. If he did not hold himself with the absolution of God-given authority, he knew that no one else would grant him that either.

Some people were born that way, but most weren’t. It was a learned discomfort.

His smile almost faltered as Edmund’s appeared. Just like Mable had sounded so pleased when she had mentioned eating food the night before, her brother spoke as if meals were a rare commodity, to be celebrated each time they had them.

If he were a more openly expressive man, the priest’s surprise might have shown on his face when a shilling was held out before him. As it was, there was a subtle lift of his brows.

They wanted him to have that? Even though they probably didn’t have any money of their own? And for the love of God, why did it feel like his eyes were watering?

Nothing fell, but a redness pricked at them as he stared at the offered coin. He wanted to tell them that it wasn’t necessary, they could put it to better use than he could, he didn’t want (nor did he need) it. But Mable sounded so proud of it, and Edmund probably needed to give it for pride’s sake.

Malachi took it, turning it over in his fingers. His voice was thick when he said, “thank you.”

He couldn’t help it. They were so kind, and they even came to church to see him despite not even being Catholic. After taking a breath, his smile was renewed, and he slipped the coin into his pocket.

“What are you two doing now? Have you had a chance to walk through town in the daylight yet?”

Malachi took the girl’s quiet promise in stride, responding with an amused huff of breath and a brighter smile.

The church kind of had to be his favorite. It had to be his priority wherever he went, not just in Whitby. Saint Hilda’s was a very beautiful, sturdy church, and he did feel more at home within its nave than he felt anywhere else in town.

If he was not obligated to hold it with such high regards above everything else, though? He supposed there were other parts of town that he enjoyed just as much. Many he was yet to discover, but his faith was full that they would be there. So he hummed his consideration, and in the meantime offered a polite nod of farewell to one of the older parishioners that glanced his way.

“The church is one of my favorites,” he ceded, “as are the more winding streets.”

Whether the streets themselves technically counted as places or just passageways between them, Malachi appreciated their endurance. Built over hills and flats, split between forks and narrow alleys, leading away yet leading towards something else.

More of the remaining congregation filtered out, leaving but a few stragglers catching up with one another in the pews. Malachi watched them before turning his focus back to the siblings.

“If you aren’t busy with anything else, perhaps the three of us could find our way around? I could do with some fresh air.”

The suggestion was, in part, a selfish one. Malachi did want to aid the children in learning their way around town and settling into their current home, and if that meant being there with them each step of the way, he was more than willing to do it.

He also just really wanted to get out of the church and not listen to confessions or tidy up or do anything else for a while, and exploring town with Edmund and Mable gave him the perfect excuse to do just that.

“No offense taken,” he answered in turn, quick as ever. Being inside for so long made him feel sickly too.

Not that he would ever tell anyone that.

It was nice and sunny, Mable said… sunny. Which meant torture for a figure clad in black. Malachi nodded all the same, already stepping away to grab his hat from where he’d left it in the sacristy. He held up a finger to signal them to wait, and within a few moments reappeared, donning his saturno.

“The beach sounds perfect,” Malachi smiled, and waved for the siblings to lead the way out of the church.