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.