Chéri hadn’t been to church much and they missed it terribly. They had come over on their first real Sunday in Whitby, but had stayed as close as possible to the exit and left the second they could. It was very reassuring to hear latin, to find one thing that was the same everywhere and that was just about it. They hadn’t dared going to confession yet and were honestly struggling with the idea.

Chéri did not know the frenchman was them, although they had heard that word before and recognised it fairly clearly, but Francis’s voice was still relatively fresh in their memory, so they turned. “Ah, Francìs!” They greeted “Are you still at the church or have they chased you out? No idea how you sleep.” They knew they were not understood. “Church” they indicated the direction of the building and did a thumbs up, in their own way to inquire about Francis’s satisfaction.