Scraaaaaaaaaaaape.

Ropati watched Mr. Brennan through the reflection in his spectacle lense, but his gaze remained stalwartly forward.

“Don’t they take money?” Ropati deadpanned right back. “In those little saucers – the ones that get passed around a second time if they don’t get as much as they’d like the first.”

Probably shouldn’t be saying this out loud to the man he’d most likely have to appeal future purchases to-

SCCRrrrRrRrraapep-p-p

-… but it was a little hard to concentrate. Ropati smiled apologetically.

The door slammed out front, and his chin uncoiled from the bottom of his neck with a sigh of relief.

“Yes,” Ropati answered. “My second biggest religious buyer.”

He finally sidestepped away from the door, and dared venture back into the sanctuary. No sign of the priest … and the podium was missing, too. There was someone at the entrance, also unfamiliar … with the flowers on the stand by the door carefully set on the floor, and the stand in his hands.

“Excuse me,” Ropati said.

The fellow put the stand down and picked the vase up, checking it over.

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen Father Peter?”

“Ah, no, he usually goes out for lunch about now.”

Well, at least the thieves were attentive. He glanced back to Mr. Brennan's direction.

Take money? Those were donations that the congregants put into those little saucers. Donations that, if not given, would earn said congregants some rather disapproving looks and another few rounds of the saucer to change their mind, but donations nonetheless.

So, not donations at all.

Malachi figured it might be a bit much to agree so openly.

Fingers dragged through his hair, scrubbing out the soap until all that drenched it was clear water. He gave another hum as he lifted his head, and did his best to push his freshly-cleaned hair up and away from his face. It worked, mostly. His cassock was dampened at his shoulders and he felt more like a drowned rodent than he'd really planned on, but it felt better, too. He dried off the bar of soap.

"Could you let me ou--" oh. The door opened when he pushed on it, no longer hindered by Fa'afili.

Malachi stepped out. Looked one way, then the other, and followed with haste when he caught sight of Mister Fa'afili's form disappearing into the sanctuary. He made it in there by the time the older bothered to look for him, holding the bar of soap between his folded hands, behind his back.

"Ah, yes," he nodded, solemn. "A sacred duty, lunch. Perhaps it would be best if we returned later, once Father Peter has had his meal?"

He didn't even want to come back here. The bishop must have known what he was doing, in sending him to a place like this. Especially not after this Father Peter realized--

Wait.

Malachi leaned a little closer to his traveling companion.

"...Father Peter?" he whispered. "I was told there was only Richards and Kemble."

Ropati was already well on his way when Mr. Brennan requested release. Here he thought he’d given all the time needed for … whatever thievery was abound this day, only to find yet another. There was the strong temptation to just close his eyes and pretend he saw nothing.

It grew stronger when the thief spoke. Stronger still when Mr. Brennan recommended them both coming back to a place he already couldn’t leave fast enough. Half-worried that Brennan had seen a son-shaped gap in his soul and decided all he needed was a day to stuff Jesus Christ in there instead.

He stiffened when the young man leaned closer, already imagining himself piled in Christian paraphernalia. A cross around his neck, his wrists, a thousand little glittering chains standing in for the actual chains on that boat--

Blinking, Ropati took his glasses off, puffed on them, and wiped them on his sleeve. Sweet, sweet freedom from looking at anything, if only for a moment.

Apparently, that was all the thief needed to take off in a hasty trot with the vase.

“… Who? No, Peter here’s older than time. I’m surprised he can still get up those three steps.”

There went the vase.

Malachi stared after the thief's graceful departure, one side of his mouth curled in thinly-veiled disgust. He couldn't fault a man for reaching for things beyond his means, but could he not have some dignity?

"And you are... sure of this?" asked Malachi, in a tone that suggested he already knew the older man's response. Of course Mr. Fa'afili would be sure about it, he was the one that had sold to this place for years. Which could mean any number of things: the bishop might have told him wrong, for one; the bishop might have sent him with false information to make a fool of him, also likely; or... this was not the church he was meant to be in.

How could it not be? It was Saint Hilda's, he'd even confirmed it. Malachi corrected his leaning posture.

"There wouldn't happen to be another Saint Hilda's, would there?" That would be ridiculous. Two churches named after the same saint in one little town? No. Couldn't be that. With a shake of his head, Malachi looked back to Mr. Fa'afili and held out the bar of soap.

"Thank you. I should... sort out whatever is happening here and try to find this Father... Peter."

Ropati, on the other hand, could not have cared less about the thief’s opportune success. It was ‘forgotten’ as soon as Mr. Brennan spoke.

“He’s been in these parts longer than I have,” Ropati affirmed.

Malachi’s theory earned one blink, then two. Two St. Hilda’s?

“Who on Earth would need even more of the same church?” he asked with a skeptical look, then remembered he was talking to a priest.

Ropati cleared his throat, but made no apology. He took the soap back, made a slight face, then took out a stained white handkerchief to wrap the just-used, still-moist bar in.

“Best of luck, Mr. Brennan,” Ropati said.

Maybe he’d get lost in the tourist traps and have a spiritual … what was the opposite of a spiritual ‘awakening’? A spiritual sleep? A spiritual sleep, then, that Whitby might get a gap between one more priest in action.

Well. Different church. Not two of the same church, technically, especially given the fact that this false St. Hilda’s likely wasn’t Catholic. If he was offended enough by the question to care, though, Malachi didn’t say as much.

“Yes, well,” he gave an exasperated sigh. “Whitby, as it turns out.”

It was rather odd. Not unheard of, just… odd. Unnecessary. If they already had a Catholic church, what need did they have for any other?

Malachi pretended not to notice the face his traveling companion made, and offered the friendliest smile he could manage. Tired, exhausted, annoyed but – polite.

“Thank you,” but God, it was weird to hear Mr. in front of his name. He’d never been ‘Mr. Brennan,’ but it was about as well suited for him as it would be for this older man to call him ‘Father.’

(He still expected it. Still wanted it. But whatever.)

Reaching out to take back his bag, Malachi gave a nod and said, “peace be with you, Mr. Fa’afili.”