It wouldn’t have come as a shock had the boy declined his offer. Who was Malachi but a stranger to him? What was he but an unknown variable, tossed in their direction by fate or God or whatever else saw fit to drive them together. He was a priest, sure, and wielded what respect was afforded to him on account of it, but should they put their trust in him because of that?

Malachi wouldn’t have. If it had been him standing there, Nettie fast asleep against his leg, he wouldn’t have trusted him.

But he never met a man worthy of his trust, back then. When it had just been him, still a child himself, caring for a girl that deserved so much more than he could give – there hadn’t been someone offering a helping hand without expecting more in return. The only one that tried was devoured by his father’s hunger for control.

There was a shift in him at the boy’s statement; a hairline crack in his defenses. He only hoped that the pain that clutched his chest was not as visible on his face as it felt.

“So don’t,” he said. Watched him lift the girl into his arms, a motion that looked as easy as breathing for him. Malachi stopped himself from walking closer and offering to carry her, despite that clawing urge in him to take the burden off of the boy’s shoulders. He knew well that he probably didn’t consider it a burden in the first place.

Starting slowly back towards way he came, Malachi explained, “I’m sure there’s one nearby. I’m still figuring out where things are, myself, but we’ll find somewhere. What should I call you?”

He was willing to give a name, and that was more than enough for Malachi.

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

The circumstances could have been better, but there was truth to it, all the same. Edmund seemed a kind enough kid, even wary as he was, and it was obvious how much he cared for his sister.

That was more important to the priest than any hesitance or irritation he’d been met with thus far.

Still, their appearance on the street begged the question of why they were out here all alone. Being new, shouldn’t they have some sort of guardian around that’d surely helped them find their way to Whitby? Malachi didn’t touch on that, not yet, but it lingered at the back of his mind as he led them at a casual pace.

“I am, yes. St. Hilda’s needed a new parish priest,” he said first, while he considered how to answer the boy’s question. It was a simple one that should have had an easy answer, but it didn’t. There were far too many answers of varying truths.

He came from London, in part. From Joseon, originally. From a small village’s church that Edmund likely wouldn’t have ever even heard of, more recently.

The street widened out some as he led them off of the smaller path and onto the main one.

“I was at a different church, in a town too small to be worth mentioning,” Malachi admitted. “I grew up in London, though. What about you two?”

Listening to other people was one of the first things he had learned in life. Before the priesthood, before even the work he did for his father; silencing himself came innately, while the listening came from a learned need. There was more to be discovered in the way that someone spoke than in the words they chose, and he had figured out as much before he knew English at all.

The slightest of nods indicated that yes, he knew where Pennsylvania was. There was not much else he knew about it other than it being a state, but he supposed it must have been close to whatever part of the states had raised his father.

There were similarities in Edmund’s emerging accent and the one Malachi nurtured himself – certain points where they almost converged, before they fell away in opposite directions again.

Malachi hummed his acknowledgement. Edmund’s story did little but fan the flames of his curiosity, but he bit back his questions for another time.

“I have. Too many, I’m afraid.”

The boy had been so… candid with him. From what he could tell, at least. Malachi found himself warming to him quickly, and did not mind sharing when the youth was so forthcoming as well – if anything, he hoped that his own ease in answering would encourage him to tell him more.

“I find ships require more faith than I’m comfortable giving,” he added with a glance Edmund’s way. His smile – though small, and politely restrained – revealed a hint of his amusement.

“My father brought me to England when I was a child, and I was sick for days even after we made land. I’ve struggled with them since.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever told anyone that. There had never been any reason to. Malachi finally allowed his hands to rest behind his back, fingers interlaced, all ten of them bearing golden rings.

“Is there something in Whitby you’re here for? Or is this simply where the boat landed?”

Surprisingly enough for a town dependent on the sea, this was not the first time in his short stay that Malachi had heard such a sentiment. He assumed it would also not be the last.

Oh, God. Was his confessional, too, going to be filled with ship-related complaints?

There were enough congregants that used it as a place to vent already.

He took note of the way Edmund’s eyes tracked the movement of his hands. They rested in a loose, comfortable hold at his back, and now and then the moonlight glittered on the gold. It was a good thing he’d worn them out tonight – he didn’t exactly carry money on him. Certainly not enough to pay for a room and whatever else the adolescents might require.

“Ah. I’m awful with directions too,” Malachi admitted, suppressing the cringe that crept up on him as he recalled his first day in town. It hadn’t been entirely his fault that he went to the wrong church – who named two churches after the same saint in the same town? – but being directionally challenged had not helped.

Another low hum. Malachi did not miss the implications of ’no one left to stop us.’

“I see,” he continued walking south from the bridge, along the river. He knew he’d seen some sort of hotel on another of his walks, though that’d been during the daytime – what had it been called? Angel? He just hoped that it was nice enough.

“Do you think you’ll be staying long, then? It’s a charming place… from what I’ve seen of it. If you can ignore all the ships,” he said. “I would be happy to help you establish yourselves here. If you wanted.”

Whether their travelling was out of necessity, or simply out of desire to see more of the world, he didn’t know. But the boy had already confirmed that there wasn’t anyone else around to help them.

The answer was good enough for the priest, if the slight upwards curve of his mouth meant anything. It was a different smile from the last one; more genuine, even in its subtlety.

“I think that would be a good idea,” came his quiet agreement.

If there was anything that Edmund and Mable were running from, he prayed it would not find them here. Whitby was as fine of a place as any to rest one’s head… though he was not unaware of the hypocrisy there would have been in saying that.

Apparently Edmund was not unaware of it either.

A soft laugh escaped him upon being called out, and Malachi toyed idly with the rings on his fingers, spinning them in place.

“I don’t sleep very well,” he explained, dark eyes focused forward.

It was a bit of an understatement. He didn’t sleep much at all, until his body wore itself out enough to have no other choice. His newfound devotion to his vows meant that it’d only be harder here in Whitby.

“And I get restless in the presbytery. I thought it would be nice to explore, since I’m not sleeping anyway- oh, there’s the hotel, that building there.”

Malachi gestured to the aforementioned building up ahead. The darkness prevented a good viewing of it, but it looked… nice. Really nice, in fact. That was a little worrisome. He glanced at the boy and his sister as they approached it.

“I’ll go in first and sort things out,” he suggested. “Have you eaten?”

The real question was, do you need food?