Good, he wasn’t putting up a fight about it. What kind of clients must a man like Arthur have anyway? Would there be desperate families clawing at his door for help? Young mothers in need, and boys with scraped knees?

The thought of Arthur actually helping anyone without some sort of twisted, ulterior motive could have made him laugh, but he was not in the mood to be amused.

Malachi’s head tilted slightly as he seemed to consider the doctor’s rather simple request.

“Five minutes,” he agreed. “After that, I’m walking out whether you’re ready or not.”

There wasn’t any rush, not truly. He had nothing to pack of his own, after throwing away everything he’d brought to Whitby besides one knife and a few articles of clothes. They were all cassocks anyway, besides the ruined red suit. He would not need them anymore.

He just liked to make things difficult, and that much was clear.

With that, he released Arthur’s wrist and removed his hand from his shoulder.

“Have you ever been to London?” Malachi inquired, leaning to rest back against the wall while he waited.