For the quickest, most fleeting fraction of a second, Malachi was concerned by the shift in Arthur’s voice. Surely, he thought, he could not have offended or upset the doctor in saying what he did – but no. No, that was not it at all, not even close.

Arthur was bothered, yes, but in a very different way than he’d expected.

On second thought he really should have expected as much.

Malachi fluttered his lashes.

“We wouldn’t want that,” he murmured, in a tone that suggested very much the opposite.

Drawing in a breath, the priest straightened back up, crossed one leg over the other, and stared forward again. His mother, his house. What lovely topics. He held out a hand.

“Give me the papers,” he said first, “I need to write.”

Not that it would be very easy, penning a letter to his niece while he was distracted by a man’s annoying breathing and a doctor that he wanted to pin down to his seat.

“My mother is… a perfect woman, if you ask her. She cares terribly for her image,” Malachi explained, “and she cares for her frivolous, lavish parties even more. She’s quite vain, and she’s happy to keep you around if you make her feel better than she is. Mother – Miriam – is… repulsive.”