The office of Lyle Brennan was as large as it was hot. It was a wonder of its own how such a spacious room retained so much heat, even with the litany of rugs and thick curtains and heavy, wooden furniture. A fire burned steady in the far corner of the room, flicking its shadows and golden lights upon the otherwise darkened space. There were candles on the desk, near enough to write without fear of losing sight of what, exactly, one was writing.

That was where Lyle sat. The décor nearly consumed him like a mountain of fine-crafted stone. He looked his smallest in his chair, high back set against a head of silvering hair and broad shoulders. A pair of spectacles rested on his nose, circular and plain. They were new, which is to say that they had not yet been cracked into fragments by his habit of continuously dropping them. He wore a suit far too expensive for how modest it was, colored in the same coffee-tones and warm beige as the rest of the room. His face was thin, with a jaw that jutted a line as sharp as his hooked nose, and his eyes were reminiscent of the palest of gray clouds where they peered from behind shaped glass.

Slender hands rested at the center of the desk, folded neatly. There were no papers underneath them.

The door creaked open.

A figure passed through, quiet and quick, and closed the door just as soon. Lyle said nothing, for he had already been expecting them for the last half hour, and his patience had worn thinner by the sixth minute into it. It took less than a minute to depart from the cellar, less than four to carry through the main hall. Even with the crowd of boisterous guests entertained this evening, he had expected a faster response.

“I’m sorry,” offered a low voice from the shadow it had crawled into; knowing, already, the mistake it had made. “There are so many people. It was hard not to be seen.”

“Do not apologize to me unless you mean it, Mal.”

Malachi dipped his head.

His oldest son took a step forward, then another. A test of the father’s mood. When he heard nothing by the third step, he approached the desk to stand tall before it.

“You wanted to see me,” it was not a question, so he did not phrase it as one.

Lyle took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat.

“Mister Haley tells me he was unsatisfied with you.”

“Mister Haley is perverse.”

“Mister Haley is rich.”

That shut the young one up for a moment. Lyle narrowed his gaze up at him, evaluating every subtle shift in his son’s smooth face. There were very few. He took the opportunity to remind, “Mister Haley also happens to be that old constable’s brother. You know the one, Mal, do you not? The one that nearly kicked down my door after your last little incident?”

Malachi balked at that.

“Incident?” he repeated. Despite his incredulous tone, despite the wavering of his voice, his expression remained carefully blank. “In- you call that an incident? That wasn’t even my fault!”

“Was it not?”

“It- no, it was not!”

“Ah,” Lyle’s thin lips formed a frown. “I’m afraid you must be misremembering things again. Are you feeling alright, Mal?”

The father’s gaze was colored with concern where it fixed upon the son. Studied him, from his thin, lanky limbs to his second-hand clothes. A suit that might have fit him in another several years, that hung from his tall, slender frame and enveloped him. A face that, for a fleeting moment, betrayed all to the one that had formed it. A mess of black hair, brought to waves in the humidity, that cascaded all around his face and fell to rest beneath his shoulders.

Malachi looked down. He did not want to look at his father and make it even easier for the older man to read him than it already was. The “incident” had not been his fault, not truly, not when it was his father that had caused it in the first place. Was he to suffer all the blame for having assisted him in cleaning it all up? In ridding his ungrateful father of a problem HE had made?

(But, then, why had his father said that back then –

“Mal, what are you doing out here with that shovel?”

Thinking it was some cruel attempt at a joke, he laughed. He laughed, and his laughter formed the sobs that followed him all through the night.

“Father, you brought me out here with you.”

“I only just arrived, Mal, what are you doing out here with that shovel?”

– why had he questioned him?)

“Mal?”

“I… I’m feeling fine,” insisted Malachi. “I know what happened.”

“Do you?”

Lyle’s soft hum told him that his father did not believe him one bit. The chair was scooted back with a scuff against the floor, and Lyle rose.

“If that is what you believe,” he started gently, and walked slowly around the desk to meet his son. Malachi was already twenty-two, and had towered above him for the last ten years, but such a creature staring up at him from below felt more liable to tear his throat out than a creature from above.

The frown smoothed itself out. Lyle kneaded it into a smile, warm and sad.

“Then I am sorry. It must be terrible to believe your own father could do such a thing.”

There was a bitterness in his throat he could not swallow.

He knew the truth. He had watched it happen, and still his father chose to lie to him, to shift the blame. Malachi had made mistakes before… mistakes that his father had helped him clean up, each time, but this time had been different, because… because…

“Malachi…”

“Oh my god,” Malachi breathed. “I- I- I di- I didn’t…”

“Malachi,” his father repeated, firmer this time. He felt his slender arms wrap around him, hold him steady, suffocate him. “It’s alright, I already told you it’s alright. I cleaned it all up for you, did I not? And I arranged things with Mister Haley to make extra sure of it.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he could not cry, but he wanted to. “I’m sorry this happened again.”

Lyle leaned back enough to look upon his face. A cold hand lifted to hold his cheek, and he said, “there is no need to apologize.”

Malachi nodded, and nodded again. The threat of tears glittered in the deep black of his eyes, but did not spill from his reddened waterlines.

“But Mal,” Lyle’s hand fell away from his face. “You have to be more convincing, if you don’t want Mister Haley or any of the others complaining to me again. We would not want them to be dissatisfied. You know how powerful men like them can be when they feel wronged.”

“I know,” he nodded yet again. “I… did not know that I was doing so poorly.”

“It’s alright. Just remember that, in order to convince someone else, you must first convince yourself. Sit down, and repeat after me.”

Guided around the desk and to the chair, Malachi felt his father’s hands push him into it.

“I grew up in London.”

That was easy enough. He cleared his throat and said, “I grew up in London.”

“Good,” praised Lyle. “Next: I love my niece.”

“I love my niece.”

“I never met Linus Carter.”

Malachi snapped back up and out of the chair with enough force that his father stumbled back.

“That is a lie,” he argued, “I met him. I lo-”

“But the rest of it is not.”

“…What? What are you talking about?”

“The rest of it,” his father repeated, returning to his space in two short steps. “Is the truth. I told you: you have to convince yourself of something first, and this is how you will do it. No one will ever love you if they think that you’re a liar.”

“But I am,” Malachi felt the floor move underneath him, felt his knees buckle where he stood.

“I would be.”

The silence that followed was neither merciful nor welcome. It rested heavy on his shoulders, thick in his lungs. He let himself fall back into the chair and watched his father walk away, towards the fire. The click of his shoes across the floor gave Malachi something to hold onto.

“Try not to worry yourself to death, right now. It is important, but you will figure it out. I have faith in you, Mal, my lovely son. I am only trying to help you.”

When had his heart started beating so fast? And when had the air knocked out of his lungs, to leave him stranded, useless, in the chair? He took a breath, but it was shaky. The sound of music and chatter from outside the office had only gotten louder, and he wanted only to drown himself in the noise to escape the weight of silence.

“Malachi, come here,” requested Lyle.

His son lifted from the chair. Whatever sense of self-assurance he had walked in with had left the room without him. He went to his father’s side and stared into the fire, watching the flames slowly dwindle down to nothing. Lyle set a hand upon his shoulder and squeezed, offering a kinder smile.

“You are still my son, no matter what you do. And tonight I want you to be happy.”

Happy. Malachi had never been so disoriented by a single word.

Lyle continued, “I want you to go out there and join the party. Drink, meet people, enjoy yourself.”

Ever so slowly, as if afraid the movement might spook the idea out of him, Malachi turned his head.

“Join the… party. Meet people? But you… no, I can’t. I don’t know how.”

“Tonight you’re allowed to be seen. Tonight, you’re allowed to do what you please.”

He had never been allowed anything like that before. This office, along with the cellar he had spent the last sixteen years of his life living in – they were the spaces he was allowed. The rest was for them, the family, and he was only allowed passage through. Malachi doubted that he could hold a normal conversation to save his life, and now his father wanted him to go out there and mingle with all of his mother’s guests?

“Why?”

Lyle’s grip on his shoulder loosened, then released.

“Because as much as I love you… no one else ever will, Malachi. They can’t. Not with the lies you tell. Accusing your own father – you’re incapable of handling rejection, Mal, and that’s why you did what you did. I want the best for you, a life devoid of that rejection. That’s why I want you to do whatever you want tonight, before the seminary.”

“The what? Father, I don’t even believe in god–”

“Repeat after me.”

“Father, please, why?”

“Sit down, Mal, and repeat after me.”

Malachi dropped to his knees, and ignored the crack of sound they made when he did. His hands found his father’s jacket, clinging to the fabric.

“Please don’t send me away. Please, I don’t want to leave, please don’t make me–”

“I believe in God.”

“No, no, no.”

“I believe in God.”

Malachi’s fingers dragged down his father’s legs and crashed over his feet. When he bowed, his forehead pressed hard against his polished shoes.

“Please.”

“I believe in God.”

“I…”

“I believe in God.”

“I believe in god.”

“I believe in God.”

“I believe in god.”

“I believe in God.”

“I believe in God.”