Judging by the flat look, Mr. Meijer was entirely unsurprised by her willingness to soil his couch.

“I would have,” he said blandly.

It was hard to tell whether he deliberately chose to ignore their sarcasm or simply missed it in its entirety.

He was not thrilled by this turn of events – not by a long shot. His disapproval was etched in the hunch of his shoulders, and further written in the way his hands hovered with intent over his drink before clasping them together instead. He supposed Uriel had always had his own way of things.

Uriel could have pulled a Menachem, caring only for himself and rutting around in who knew what prison gutters, never to be seen again (and thank God for that!). Instead … well. He made the sort of mistake Zechariah might have, had he been more ‘fond’ of talking to women and less fond of planning. And thinking. And trying to be better than Chaim.

Alright. Maybe not. Still. Perhaps there was still hope. Not nearly as much hope, but... some.

“There is...” Zechariah pursed his lips, then finally let himself lift his glass, “a temple, in West Yorkshire.”

It was a modest place – a place a man could hardly find without specifically looking for it.

“They are a strange sort … but they bat not an eye. I … suspect the Rabbi would give you his blessing.”