"Good morning," he replied, a sunny expression illuminating his features in the morning light filtering through the stained glass. "I'm sorry, an old injury. It fails me sometimes," he said putting a hand on his hip. It was a casual excuse for what he had done intentionally, but what left his mouth was objectively true. And he had the scar to prove it.

"I'm Fletcher - Colin Fletcher. A pleasure to meet you Father." He got to his feet, slightly favouring his right leg over the left and extended his arm to shake the man's hand. "I am a recent arrival in Whitby. Keeper of game and grounds for the McKenna's, here with my daughter Ruari who they've taken on as a maid."

Words failed him then, not wanting to seem too forward with his request, instead looked skyward and smiled up at the glass effigies for whom his brothers were named. "You have a beautiful church, Father," he said, as much to the priest as to himself before turning back to the man as if seeing him anew. "I strayed from the church in my youth but now that life has settled I find myself drawn back. I would like the same for my daughter, but -" How could he put this delicately? "We were separated for much of her childhood and I don't know if she was ever properly baptized. Her mother, God rest her soul-" who was not in fact dead as far as he knew, but he figured she could benefit from a blessing of peace wherever she was. "- did her best during some difficult times. I admit I am unfamiliar with the practice, but could you baptize someone if there is doubt one was performed?"

Perhaps Fletcher was rambling now as he often did when he re-emerged from verdant solitude back into civilization, but there were few people to discuss Catholic canon in the woods and fields save for himself and God, and God was a less than stimulating conversationalist.