Would he now.

Malachi hardly looked convinced, but then, there was not much to read from his careful expression at all. As lovely as they might have been, he was not going to let himself believe a single thing out of Arthur’s mouth that was not intended to degrade him.

At least the hurt was real. Something tangible that he could work with, argue against. The kindness, when it came, was… sickening, and he would not let himself return to that dizzying delirium of praise and belief.

“London, dear, we’re going to kill my mother.”

His hand moved upon being touched, twisting to take Arthur’s into his own firm grip. Malachi set his other hand on his shoulder, all too aware of the stitches beneath his shirt.

“So I suggest you pack your things quickly, unless you’ve changed your mind.”