Ropati missed the implied cloth-admonishment under his own pillar of salt. He sucked in a breath and shook his head. This young man had come to spread the disease that was religion … but he was a young man, nonetheless.

Polishing his glasses on his sleeve, he looked back to Mr. Brennan.

“I’ve heard Constable Crane’s nice.”

He put his glasses back on and squinted through the sun. One random man he’d never even met out of an entire city he’d heard a kind word about. Ropati offered no more, positive nor negative: he didn’t want to spook the fellow.

“Ah! See that?” he said, gesturing to the church down the street from them. “That’s Saint Hilda’s, there. Do you want me to introduce you, or would you rather get settled on your own?”

He could already imagine the sound of his long-awaited cargo ship sloshing off again, just as he got there. Absinthe felt dirty to peddle.