For a while, all he heard was breath. Malachi could not know if his words had truly reached Richards or not, or if they had stumbled against the partition and fallen back onto him.

If he struggled so hard against what he was supposed to be, his mind repeated, could he ever regain that control?

He'd never had much of it in the first place.

An apology finally passed through the grate. Malachi let it linger between them, while he watched what low light caught the shape of Richards on the other side. Black fabric. Hands. Dust. The ever-present ghosts that haunted every church.

"Trying is not always enough," he told them. That Richards happened to be there, too, was secondary.

"Have you anything else to confess?"