One could only hope that Arthur took his own words to heart. It was not a big deal to Malachi whether his family liked Arthur or not – he liked him, terrible and cruel as he was, and as much as he wished he didn’t. The opinions of others did not matter unless they could affect them adversely, and Miriam would not live long enough to disapprove and inform the police.

Leaning back into his own space, the priest tucked the briefcase securely back under his seat. Crossed his legs, neatly folded his hands, set them atop his knee out of habit.

“Oh, God, no.”

Malachi shook his head, as if the question was simply absurd.

“She’ll have had dinner already, with her friends perhaps, and she will not allow the servants to cook for us since we did not announce ourselves first,” that was the way it always went. He had not visited in nearly five years, but he suspected little had changed.

“I’ll cook for you, if you need. I imagine my mother will retire to her room soon after seeing us in, so as not to let you see her tired. God forbid. Tomorrow she will have prepared herself, and I’m sure she will arrange for a proper dinner.”

Ugh. He could already feel… London, sticking itself to him. Or perhaps it was already there inside him, in the inflection of his peculiar accent, clawing itself out the closer they got. It felt like another world, dealing with his mother and his family. The priesthood had at least been an escape from that.

“Is that alright? Did you want me to arrange for you to stay elsewhere while we’re here?”