Between the distance and the pale light of the moon, Malachi could not make out much about the shapes, apart from them being small.

He gave a half-nod when the boy first spoke. The accent was only vaguely familiar, and he took it for something American, on account of it being closer to his father’s than to anyone’s in Whitby. Closer to his own, for that matter.

As the stranger straightened his shoulders, Malachi seemed to oppose the movement with a downward tilt of his head to look shorter.

It didn’t make that much of a difference when he had almost a foot on him.

“Nothing,” he assured, keeping his hands low where the boy could see them.

“I was just out for a walk and I heard you. I’m Father Brennan, from St. Hilda’s,” Malachi took a few steps closer. The one on the ground was even smaller, and he frowned, concerned by sight.

“Why are you resting out here? Are you sure she’s alright?”