The pews were filled with more congregants than usual. Considering the typical attendance on any day other than Sunday, it did not add up to all that many people, but the added faces brought a sense of life to the church that was not always there.

Malachi did not immediately take notice of the latest man to enter. Just minutes before, a young girl had left the confessional abruptly, after having spent the last half hour spewing nonsense about her boyfriend's sins instead. Even as Malachi stepped out from the confessional, mouth drawn in a thoughtful frown, he could not make sense of what she had wanted him to do about any of it. Her boyfriend was welcome to seek penance himself, but the girl had been adamant about her own lack of sin.

Several minutes passed while the priest was caught by another parishioner. Not for a confession, but to extend an invitation to the priest -- something about a child's birthday -- which was promptly but politely refused.

Only then did he see the man waiting in the pew, dressed quite nicely for his visit. Malachi's hands folded neatly behind his back as he approached him.

"Hello," offered the priest, along with a polite smile. "I'm Father Brennan. Is there something I can do for you?"

My, this Earl was a tall fellow. It was rare for Malachi to ever feel small, when he stood above the heads of so many in Whitby, but this man towered above even him. Malachi had not had to look up at anyone since the earliest days of his adolescence.

This did not outwardly faze the priest, who dipped his head in polite acknowledgement of the returned introduction. The name sounded strangely familiar, but... ah. Would it bother him to be reminded of his work when he was trying to give confession?

"I would be more than happy to hear your confession, of course," said Malachi. With a wave of his hand toward the confessional, he added, "I am glad to hear that Whitby is treating you well. I moved here quite recently myself, and I will be here from now on, any time you wish to visit. I... am curious, though. Are you an artist, by any chance?"

Ah, he'd been right then. Malachi could not claim to know all that much about any kind of art himself, but the name Douglas Gordon had certainly impressed itself in his memory, for how often his mother had mentioned it. If he remembered correctly, she had attended several shows of his and owned a number of pieces that she kept scattered through the estate.

"I understand," he said with a nod. He followed after Douglas and continued, "I've found Whitby to be preferable to London as well. I can't say that the women here wish to meet me for the same reasons, however."

Malachi gave a half-smile at that.

"Here we are then."

With a gesture for Douglas to enter the booth, Malachi did the same on the other side.

Now seated, Malachi pulled uncovered the little grate in the wall between them.

His hands folded neatly over his lap while he waited.

A dark brow lifted at the start of the artist's confession, but he said nothing of it. Nothing had to be perfect.

"What matters is that you're here now," encouraged Malachi, after a moment of silence. "Confess all the sins you've made since then."

Malachi's eye twitched.

Brother. Brother? He was a fully ordained priest. Calling him anything less felt like more of a sin to Malachi than the admission of a weak mind.

Quietly, Malachi cleared his throat.

"When our troubles are suppressed, they poison the soul, and express themselves in reckless ways," his voice was low, calm in the dark of the confessional. "These paintings and behaviors of yours are the manifestations of your pain, making itself known in the only way it knows how."

This was not about the people affected by those behaviors, so he did not speak on them. This was the artist's confession.

"Have you done anything else during these episodes of yours?"