While Fletcher's tracking talents were almost purely limited to wooded areas, when he set out to find a church it wasn't a great feat of ingenuity to do so. He had been in Whitby only a few weeks doing some repairs and odd jobs around the McKenna estate and the old cottage in the woods on their land, coming into town proper only for supplies when absolutely necessary. Crowds were disquieting at the best of times, and being the latest stranger in a small town wasn't a position he found particularly enviable. Alas, were there a Catholic church tucked away in a wooded hollow he would have attended that instead, but what he needed could only be found in town.

It was midmorning on a Tuesday, a time he picked specifically to avoid as many prying eyes as possible, and hummed thoughtfully to himself when he slipped silently through the doors and found the hallowed space largely empty. Fletcher shuffled awkwardly into one of the rear-most pews and stared up at the windows and into the painted spaces between the buttressing of the distant space above his head. He had always been fond of church though never the service. He found it more helpful to ponder God and eternity in the quiet comfort of his own head when not surrounded by a symphony of old men clearing their throats, off-tone singing, busybodies of every variety, and conducted to the tune of fire and brimstone by a man who had likely transgressed more than the entire town combined, if the stench of Saturday night's ale coming off him was any indicator.

Childhood memories momentarily got the better of him, but Fletcher returned to the stillness of this place like plunging his head underwater, where everything moved slowly and quietly as if floating serenely into infinity. Perhaps antithesis then to his entire state of being, as he knelt on the bench on the pew in front of him, he purposely shifted it in a way that made the wood groan and squeak only slightly against the stone floor that echoed into what felt like a cacophony above.

He desperately desired to speak with the local priest, but he disliked being a bother and should the father be otherwise engaged Fetcher would simply leave as he had come. But he had hoped the noise would draw the man out.

The morning’s service had gone much better than expected, considering how little of it Malachi remembered actually doing. Lately it was all… muscle memory, so to speak. Reliant only on well-practiced motions and words practically engraved on his tongue. Some time ago the training took over, defaulting to what had been instilled in him rather than what came to him natural as breath, and sometimes habit felt like the only thing that kept him from running off track.

Midmorning saw him taskless, though he remained present in the sanctuary with the expectation that he would be needed soon. If not by Father Richards or the other residents of the presbytery, then by one parishioner or another seeking his assistance. It would have been a lie to say that his own spirit was one to be modeled after, at least in its current state, but not even his distraction from general services could lessen his desire to help.

Perhaps that, too, was mere distraction. More problems piled atop his own, so that he would not have the chance to find and face them. How perfectly that was working out.

The sound registered only vaguely when the doors of the church were opened and shut, his attention drawn downward to the dried stalks of lavender in his hands. Malachi sat in a pew nearest to the front, one leg crossed casually over the other as he filled a tiny cloth pouch with them. Ordinarily, he’d have been peering down into the pages of his bible instead – and had anyone approached, he would have shoved the pouch aside in favor of the book.

It was another noise that forced his attention away from it instead. A shrill one, that sounded like the scrape of one hard surface against another. Eyes narrowed, Malachi glanced behind him, over the rows of empty pews that separated him from the source of the noise.

Was that… intentional?

Slipping his things into the pockets of his cassock, he stood, and a swift stride made quick work of closing the distance.

“Good morning,” he greeted. “My apologies for the interruption, but- I’ve not seen your face in here before, have I?”

"Good morning," he replied, a sunny expression illuminating his features in the morning light filtering through the stained glass. "I'm sorry, an old injury. It fails me sometimes," he said putting a hand on his hip. It was a casual excuse for what he had done intentionally, but what left his mouth was objectively true. And he had the scar to prove it.

"I'm Fletcher - Colin Fletcher. A pleasure to meet you Father." He got to his feet, slightly favouring his right leg over the left and extended his arm to shake the man's hand. "I am a recent arrival in Whitby. Keeper of game and grounds for the McKenna's, here with my daughter Ruari who they've taken on as a maid."

Words failed him then, not wanting to seem too forward with his request, instead looked skyward and smiled up at the glass effigies for whom his brothers were named. "You have a beautiful church, Father," he said, as much to the priest as to himself before turning back to the man as if seeing him anew. "I strayed from the church in my youth but now that life has settled I find myself drawn back. I would like the same for my daughter, but -" How could he put this delicately? "We were separated for much of her childhood and I don't know if she was ever properly baptized. Her mother, God rest her soul-" who was not in fact dead as far as he knew, but he figured she could benefit from a blessing of peace wherever she was. "- did her best during some difficult times. I admit I am unfamiliar with the practice, but could you baptize someone if there is doubt one was performed?"

Perhaps Fletcher was rambling now as he often did when he re-emerged from verdant solitude back into civilization, but there were few people to discuss Catholic canon in the woods and fields save for himself and God, and God was a less than stimulating conversationalist.

That had hardly sounded like the accidental work of some injury, but the priest dipped his head in understanding as if it simply did not occur to him that it could have been a lie. The visitor wore a smile far brighter than Malachi could muster, but he kept a steady, neutral look upon him as he spoke.

“Father Malachi Brennan,” he offered in return, and stared down at Fletcher’s hand before extending both of his own to take it. His handshake was firm, but the added touch seemed to soften it. “A pleasure to meet you as well.”

As soon as their hands fell apart, his own joined together in a casual hold behind his back. His gaze followed the upward turn of Fletcher’s head, sweeping over the décor that, by now, he knew so well. The compliment earned but a nod, hardly intended for him in the first place – St. Hilda’s was beautiful with or without his presence there.

If Fletcher rambled… Malachi did not appear to mind. He would hardly be the first person to lean upon the ear of a priest.

“Well,” he began, eyes straying from the other man’s face for just a moment as he gave the matter some thought. “If you have no record of her baptism and doubt that it was performed, I would be happy to do so.”

If she had already been baptized, then it would not make any difference to do it again. Better safe than sorry.

“I can also explain the process and what will be required of you both, if needed. How old is your Ruari?”

Fletcher regarded Father Brennan with a curiously intent gaze as they shook hands, caring little for the firmness that was supposedly telling of a man's character - he was more focused on the casual disinterest, the soft, even manner in which the priest spoke. And so loathe to pry into Fletcher's ramblings about his past. Interesting, that. Priests were typically the nosiest men in quaint villages, rivalled only by the elderly women.

"I searched for the record of the baptism but the church her mother briefly attended unfortunately burned down." As had the Diocese, and well, the entire town. "She is fifteen now. A challenging age but she seems to be adjusting well here. She takes after me far more than I'd like or care to admit. I haven't discussed baptism with her yet, but I will leave it to her to decide if she wishes to." He glanced back up at the windows and the hollow eyes of saints peering down at him as he formulated his next sentence carefully. "I often feel I have little to offer her, and while I have failed her in the past this is something I can give her."

And she needed it more than most, but Fletcher left that out. She had been borne of more than one sin (give or take a commandment or two), and if Fletcher never considered himself a believer, he would for her sake alone.

"But please, tell me about yourself Father Brennan. I would like to know you better before I commit to your congregation."

“Oh,” the mention of a burning church seemed to pull some hint of a reaction, though even that was small. “That is unfortunate, I’m sorry to hear it.”

As for the rest of it, Malachi was not quite sure how to feel. While he nodded along in ever-polite acknowledgement as Fletcher explained his daughter’s situation, he could not help but wonder why he had approached him if he was not already certain of her desire for baptism.

There was a part of him that simply felt miffed by it. It was small, easily quieted. There were many reasons for a loving father to discuss the matter with a priest before he committed to the idea, regardless of the utter importance of the matter, and he reminded himself of that.

“About- myself?”

That earned a note of surprise, a subtle raise of dark brows. It was clear that the request was either not one he often heard or – perhaps more likely – often answered.

“Of course,” he conceded. “I’ve been St. Hilda’s head priest for just over a month, actually, and before that I served in several other churches in smaller towns – London, before that.”

He did so hope that this man was unaware of the scandal that came with changing diocese. Hoped he didn’t pry any further, because he was not sure what to say beyond the script he had prepared.

“I was raised there, in London. I’m afraid there isn’t all that much to me, beyond being a priest,” Malachi said with a sheepish smile. “But if there is anything you’d like to know that would make you feel more comfortable choosing my church, I’ll be happy to answer.”