If there was one benefit to his less vaunted class, it was reachable expectations when it came to social niceties. As such, the great boon he had accidentally done Mr. Brennan was completely misunderstood.

That was the most relief he’d ever seen someone show a church. Granted, he was usually staring just beyond his cargo when he came here. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to marching back here with said cargo in hand, but here he was.

He glanced back at Mr. Brennan, as though he might see a map on his shoulder that declared just what backwater church he’d come from last. No such luck.

And then again, when he questioned the location. Ropati opened his mouth, closed it, looked between the church and Mr. Brennan once, twice.

“I’ve … been here before?” Ropati half-said, half asked himself, looking again to it. “Yes,” he exhaled, eyes catching on the wood. “Burst a crate of zinfandel there two years ago. The priest cursed her name,” he reiterated, relieved he wasn’t losing his mind.