Offended. The implication that he would be offended was almost more amusing to Malachi than the similarities he shared with the story.

He had never been chained. That, at the very least, he could claim.

“How terrible,” commented Malachi, in a tone far less serious than the concerned expression he wore along with it. Truly, it would be an awful way to die. Many times he had thought himself on the brink of death within the cellar room, locked inside without any hope of ever getting out on his own – but his father had always returned eventually.

Poor Fortunato, he assumed, had not been so lucky as to be met with the candlelit silhouette of Lyle Brennan in his final hour of need.

“You are welcome to run them by me,” he agreed. “But you do not have to ask me first. If something feels right to you in the moment…”

Malachi glanced over. Wiped the last bit of dust from the back of Arthur’s shoulder, and let his touch linger there while they walked. “…Then do it. I will be grateful for whatever you decide, and… this is your first, isn’t it?”

Miriam did not deserve the honor, but she was a perfect sacrifice all the same.

“How do you feel, love?”