Patient and calm as could be, Malachi listened to Crane's explanations without any real indication of what he thought. The constable's shame was a terrible one, albeit not one that should have fallen on his shoulders. If his failings had been in being too weak, then his virtue had been in trying all the same, in injuring himself just to do so.

It was a heavy burden to bear on his own. Unwarranted, Malachi believed, but he would not step into Crane's past and tell him how to feel. Regrets were rarely governed by reason.

A weak smile crossed the constable's face, and the priest waited, without pushing, for him to continue.

Things fell into place rather quickly after that.

Crane was the one, then. The parishioner that'd been mentioned when he'd heard the filtered explanations for Father Richards' visit to the monastery and the removal of certain powers. Malachi had suspected as much since the constable had brought the basket by the church, but the souring of his disposition each time Richards was mentioned only confirmed it.

The first thing that left his mouth was, "despicable?"

Catholicism had sure done a number on him. For every eager sinner that walked into his church, there was an innocent repressed near into oblivion.

"Why would I leave, constable? Has your form transfigured into that of a monster, now that you've shared with me your truth?"

Lightly, Malachi shook his head. He set his empty cup to the side.

"Does it feel evil to you, this fondness? Or have you only ever been told that it must be?"