Oh, God, thought Malachi.

Not just a woman. A mother.

The lady (was she also a lady? Was there a difference?) had the unfortunate balance of an uncoordinated deer on ice. Drunk out of her wits or sick enough to die, she had to be one of the two. Malachi hesitated where he stood, torn between the desire to help her and the deeper, primal urge to get away.

She was determined, he'd give her that.

As slowly as he'd fixed the buttons of his robe, Malachi moved closer to the floundering woman, shoes clicking distinctly on the floor. Father, son, Claude; the trinity she'd made of him brought a frown to his pale face. Whatever she was, she was out of her mind enough to take him for her son, which only made the priest more reluctant.

"Please don't call me that, miss."

'Son,' not 'Claude.'

Malachi walked closer, but stopped before the pew that she had attempted to use as support.

"I'm Father Brennan," he offered in the hopes that she'd at least take one of those words before the ones she'd granted him.

"Are you alright? Do you want some help up?"