A wince, a pained grimace – but Malachi was silent as could be. The fibers of the rope scratched uncomfortably against his neck; every time Arthur’s grip on the other end of it moved, it rubbed the skin red.

He didn’t answer, nor did he acknowledge the absurdity of Arthur putting on a shirt alone. Of course, because his presentation mattered, even while he walked a fully grown man on a makeshift leash. As if Malachi’s appearance was not enough to warrant unkind stares and merciless gossip at the very least.

The world outside was hot, sweltering even, but Malachi swore he felt himself get colder and colder the closer he got to the door.

They were going to get arrested. There was no way around it. Everyone was going to see them and their lives were going to be ruined. His, that was; whether Arthur had a life he cared enough about to save, he wasn’t sure.

Ignoring every single instinct, every scream of protest in his head, every fraction of sense he still had, Malachi opened the front door.

This was insane. Pointless! What did it even matter if Arthur felt he’d proved his loyalty, or his faith, or whatever the fuck he wanted him to prove – if they never saw each other again after this? It was a workhouse for them if they were lucky. What had Wilde got? Two years in prison? And that was for the frivolous dalliances of an author! He was a priest, a community leader; what would they give him for such corruption? What would they give Arthur, who held the rope, and what would be said if his wounds were not taken into account, and they took him for a madman that’d captured a poor, naïve priest?

Oh, God, he was going to faint.

Malachi stepped outside.

The sun was blinding. His eyes quickly shut against the intrusion of the light, unshielded by his glasses or saturno. His skin had not seen the sun in years upon years, if it had ever seen it at all.

“Where?”