Finished with the vegetables, Malachi rested lightly forward against the table, knife still in hand. Mister Tully had his full attention now, and though the beggar had lifted slightly higher when he sat up, the priest still had to look down at him to meet his gaze.

A quiet sound -- a cross between a huff and a proper sigh -- pushed from his lips. It was enough that the hair in his face was swayed, and his free hand rose to push it back. Mister Tully wasn't wrong about all of it, but he wasn't all right either. That sad way to think was one of the core aspects of priesthood, and he did not want to be transferred yet again because of it. How many times would they move him around before they realized it was him and not the church? How long before they stuck him somewhere even farther away, where his parish could not possibly idolize him, where they'd skewer him instead for bringing them his Catholic ways?

Not much longer. He had to stay. He had to make this one work.

"It is not a façade," said Malachi, setting down the knife.

"The sheep do not concern themselves with the shepherd himself, but with the field he brings them to. I'm only a guide, a stepping stone, and that is what I signed up for in taking this path."