A pale hand slid the panel from the grate, uncovering it. A woman's voice reached through it, youthful and somehow familiar, to neglect the greetings Malachi knew and offer something of more interest instead.

"I am confessing the sins of my uncle."

And that was when it clicked.

Malachi felt his eyes widen in the darkness of the confessional. Felt his head turn for them to peer through the grate, though he saw little more than a blur of blonde hair. When had Nettie come to Whitby? And more importantly, why hadn't she told him first? He would have made sure that a proper place was prepared for her in town, somewhere nice, and he would have found something in the markets for her, and--

There was no use in worrying about it now. She was here, and Malachi would not send her away. He was only grateful that the church had emptied, for it had always been difficult for him to maintain the serenity of his priestly demeanor when he was given the chance to see her. That is to say: by the time she finished speaking, he had already given up on any sincere attempt to respect the rules of confession.

"I see," acknowledged Malachi with a nod. "That is a truly reprehensible sin, I'm afraid. Nothing to be done for him."

Already moving to exit the booth, he continued with flourish, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit..."

Malachi stepped out. His hair was somewhat shorter since the last time he'd seen Nettie (though still a little longer than some of the men around Whitby kept theirs), but apart from the nearly-faded bruise at his collar, he looked much the same. Hardly had any reason to change his wardrobe, after all.

He finished with, "...step out, please, I've missed you dearly."