If he meant that, Arthur wouldn’t have asked him to do something like that in the first place.

Malachi dressed himself quickly, pulling on his trousers and the arms of his cassock. His midsection ached with every little bend of his spine, but there was no way around it.

“No,” he said, firmer this time. “Yo-u’re no-t.”

Indulgence was nothing but a fantasy. Arthur, painted kindly through the priest’s hopelessly romantic pathetic glasses, was a fantasy. The truth was that he was just – cruel. And pretending not to care wouldn’t change that it still hurt.

He'd been willing to sacrifice everything for him. His career, his reputation, his freedom. He'd just proved that, and it still meant nothing, because he would always be nothing.

Malachi fiddled with the buttons of his vestments, grateful for the way the black fabric hid the blood that rubbed off from his fingers. Wiped more blood from his mouth with the back of his wrist.

“I’m going-…” …where? There was nowhere that felt safe anymore, if there ever had been. He didn’t want to find Nettie, or Mable, or Elijah, or even Francis, and pretend that he wanted anything but to just stop.

“…Home.”

He didn’t care if the trains were still running or not. He’d wait there until they were.

With that, Malachi went to pass by the kneeling doctor and continue to the door.