Three days. It had only been three days since he had arrived in Whitby, and yet Malachi already felt suffocated in the barren space that was his bedroom.

It was not the smallest room he had stayed in over the course of the last fifteen years, nor was it particularly offensive in any way. In fact it had quite the edge over some of the churches he’d stayed in where, upon arrival, he had learned of the shared room with his fellow priests – St. Hilda’s was not that small, and Father Richards was not so unpleasant that he’d have minded much in the first place.

He had pushed the extra furniture into the guest room to allow for more space. Set a few things out on the desk to make it feel homey. His bag remained unpacked, but not for any lack of trust in the presbytery’s (admittedly nonexistent) security measures. He’d even started carrying an old pouch of lavender in one of the pockets of his robes again, in an effort to lull himself into some manner of sleep once he reached his bed.

No, it was not the room’s fault that Malachi felt stifled within it.

Fortunately, the late hours of the night saw less people on the streets, and so the sleepless priest decided he would wander. There were hardly enough daylight hours to explore the little town the way he wanted to, what with all the things that kept him occupied in the church, but the nights? The nights he spent alone.

That was a change, for him. An intentional one. Whitby would be different, and he would be better for it.

The previous day had been almost unbearably hot, wrapped in layers of black as he was. The night air proved much cooler, blowing in a refreshing, salty breeze from off the sea, and Malachi whispered a quiet prayer that it would cool off the next few days. It wouldn’t, of course, but then it wasn’t any different from any of his other prayers.

He left the presbytery, still dressed in black vestments that could have faded into the dark without the light’s reflection off his white collar. Without any clear idea of where he even wanted to go… he started with away from the church and set out, shoes tapping a light sound against cobblestone and dirt.

How long had they been walking, now?  Months, undoubtedly.  But today, specifically.  The whole daylight, and then some since the sun had set.  And it was still hot as all hell, even in the pale moonlight.  Edmund had hoped England would be less temperate, but no such luck, not yet.  The breeze coming in from the sea only brought with it the sickening smell of salt that reminded Edmund of the long trip here.
 
Beside him, Mable dragged her feet along the ground as she walked.  Edmund gently squeezed her hand where he held it in his own.  “Don't drag your feet, you’ll ruin your shoes.”

The girl didn’t respond except for a quiet sigh.  Edmund frowned.

“Tired?”

A hum, affirmative.

Well, they’d have to find a comfortable sidewalk to spend the night on soon.

“Just a little further, alright?”

“No,” came a drawn out, scratchy response.  “My feet hurt…”

Edmund took a few steps further before Mable forced him to halt.  She didn't say anything, just stared at him.  Even in the darkness, he knew under her eyes were dark circles betraying her exhaustion.

Resigned, the young man glanced around, using his foot to sweep dirt away from a particularly flat idea of the ground before removing his coat and laying it down on top.  Mable smiled at the gesture, bemused, and let Edmund help her down.

“Just for a moment,” Edmund said as she leaned against his leg.  “We still need to find something to eat.”

“This late?” the girl mumbled.  Her brother hummed.

“I thought you were hungry.”

“Sleep for dinner tonight, I think.” 

Edmund scoffed.  “I’ll find you something,” he said quietly.  Mable just sniffled in response, already half asleep.  Her brother ran fingers through the thick curls on her head, both to soothe her and keep himself awake.

The streets were dimly-lit and mercifully devoid of large groups of people at this hour. While he passed the occasional late-night worker and stumbling drunk, Malachi walked farther away from the church than he had expected without running into all that many.

He passed through narrow alleyways, hands extending out to touch the cool stone walls even as he had to draw his shoulders in to fit through the gap. Narrow streets, too, where he was grateful after the fact that he had not met any dark-clothed silhouettes waiting at the other ends.

It was quiet out, but far from silent. The mingled sounds of nocturnal creatures and bumbling insects rose above the distant rhythm of the sea; in the presbytery he could only hear the sound of his own breaths.

At home. It was his home. For a while, anyway.

The bridge came into view before he knew it. He had almost reached it when he heard another set of sounds add themselves to nature’s nighttime cacophony – voices? Two of them, from what he could make out.

Malachi stopped and waited. Listened for a few long moments. In spite of his wandering, he was aware of the dangers one might face while out at night… but the voices sounded young. How much trouble could it be?

He crossed to the next street, passing quickly through a connecting alley, and continued down the path until a shape came into view. Disfigured in the darkness, bottom-heavy – no, that was two shapes leaned together. Two small ones.

Stepping softly, Malachi approached with caution, and spoke up before he got close in case he spooked them.

“Hello,” he called out in the friendliest voice he could manage. “Are you alright?”

Edmund became aware of the approaching figure only a second before he spoke, a testament to his own fatigue after the long day.  The person was swathed in black, and tall - very tall.  If they came any closer, they'd tower over Edmund for sure.

But they stay a distance away, thankfully, and call out.  Surely, someone looking to rob them or worse wouldn't announce themselves first, right?

"We're fine," Edmund said back, trying to sound more intimidating than he appeared, but only succeeding in giving away his foreign nature with the two simple words.  Quietly, he cleared his throat, straightening his shoulders before he continued.

"Just resting.  What do you want?"

This time, the boy was careful to annunciate and hide any accent that might reveal his lineage further.

All the while, Mable stayed with her head down, perhaps well and truly asleep in the few moments they had alone.  Edmund had no way to tell with her face obscured as it was, and hopefully it was the same for the stranger.

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?”

The mans assurances that he wanted nothing did little to soothe Edmund, but his introduction seemed to do the trick.  Father Brennan..?  A priest, then.  A priest would have no business robbing two kids on the street, would he?  Unless he was lying, but sure enough, he was wearing that gown preachers and holy men usually do.

Whatever small comfort gained from Father Brennan's title disappeared as he came closer still and eyed Mable.  If not for her weight against his leg, Edmund would have moved between them and only barely stopped himself from doing so.

"She's fine," he said, defensive.  "Just tired."

Still, the priest's concern bled into Edmund and he knelt down slowly, supporting his sister's delicate weight with just a hand on her shoulder.  He felt her forehead and then her cheek with practiced motions, searching for a fever or anything else amiss.  Thankfully, he found nothing.  Instead, Mable's eyes fluttered as they focused on the face in front of her.

"Toby..?" she murmured, but was quickly shushed.  Edmund sighed, privately relieved that she really was alright, glancing back up to the man at his side.

"We're new here," he said by way of explanation.  Here referred to many things in that moment.  The town, the country, this life.  Edmund trusted Father Brennan would find a suitable answer in there for himself.

So defensive this boy was. That was a good thing, considering his presence on the street with a young girl at his side.

Malachi hated the fact that he was most likely spooking them, regardless of his efforts to appear as something harmless, but what was he supposed to do? Turn around and leave them here, just to hear about two dead kids in the morning?

He didn’t encroach any farther into the stranger’s space. His eyes strayed from the smaller figure back to the boy, watching with a neutral expression as he checked on her.

“Ah,” another dip of his head. “I am too, actually. This is my third night here.”

It was not necessary information for a stranger, no, but he hoped that his offering would smooth out some of the tension. It was hard enough moving to a new place, and from the looks of things… he suspected it was even harder for them.

Malachi clasped his hands together, fighting the urge to hold them at his back the way he usually did.

“You… don’t have anywhere else to rest?” he ventured, “it isn’t safe to stay here all night. I’d be happy to help you find a better place – there are a few inns that would at least have beds.”

Edmund raised himself again to his full height after assuring his sister really was alright, reluctant to let this stranger have too many advantages over him.  He probably had good intentions if he was a priest, but Edmund had to assume everyone who approached after dark was dangerous.

Third night?  This was the man's third night and he was already so comfortable wandering around after dark?  Edmund wondered if that's the kind of privilege granted by a tall stature or the cassock the man wore.  He envied the former.

"An inn," he repeated the suggestion, unable to suppress a bit of irritation from leaking into the words.  "Why didn't I think of that?"

The moment the words left his lips, Edmund regretted them.  If this man wanted to help, the least he could do was be respectful.  And if he wanted to hurt them, making him angry certainly wasn't the best way to dissuade him from doing so.

"Sorry," he said quickly, fixing his tone.  "I've got no money.  Luggage got lost at sea.  What little of it there was, anyway."

His words were accompanied by a meager shrug, summing up the boys feelings on the subject.  What good would their things be to the two of them now?  Perhaps they'd be a little less hungry, a little less bruised, but Edmund imagined the pack would also make them more of a target to people less kind than this Father Brennan.

What good was American money here, anyway?  Of course, Edmund hadn't thought of that until they arrived, and all their things were already long gone, but the lack of forethought showed just how spontaneous this little trip was.

"We've spent the night outside before, we'll be alright.  We'll find something a little more out of the way, she was just..." weak, weary, probably more so than Edmund himself.  Again, he shrugged, unwilling to admit this to the man.

Well. That settled that.

A look of mild surprise crossed Malachi’s pale face at the stranger’s sarcastic tone. It was the only real reaction he gave, and even that was set aside when he was offered an apology.

“No need,” he softly dismissed, and kept quiet after that to let the boy speak.

No money, no luggage, no shelter. Most people tended to fight harder to get those things when presented with a chance, but not this one. Another good thing: perhaps that meant that he still had a sense of self-respect that was so often worn down in others like him.

That, or he just really wanted to protect that girl, at the cost of having to defend her on the street.

The casual manner in which the young man spoke of their troubles, with his shrugs and his weak explanations, only served to worry Malachi more. Drawing in a deep breath, he considered the unknown state of them and gave a quiet hum.

St. Hilda’s wasn’t that far, but it was far from a long-term solution. There was Father Richards and Mrs. Higgins to think about too.

“I will not push you,” said Malachi, lifting both hands in mock surrender. “But it’s only a matter of time before one of you gets sick or hurt out here.”

More of the obvious, and it wasn’t any of his business what they did… but it was his duty to help those in need. If that meant personal sacrifice, well, he was just one step closer to sainthood.

“What if I paid for it?”

Bad idea. Providing food and shelter at the church was one thing, but paying for two strangers to stay somewhere else? What if they up and decided to bleed him for all he was worth? What if the wrong kind of person caught wind of a priest putting up two youths young enough to be his children?

(Or was it worse if they didn’t know what he was up to, so late at night?)

“I know you have no reason to trust me,” he trudged on anyway. “It’s your choice if you don’t, but I would like to help you. I can at least do that – I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if I didn’t.”

The way this man conducted himself was so different from what Edmund was used to.  He towered over the children in front of him, and made an effort to dampen it with a quiet and calm voice, projecting his movements so as not to startle.  The words he used were comforting and understanding, and he did not assume Edmund would accept his help just because it was offered.

Indeed, this man was very different from anyone else Edmund had called father before.

Perhaps that's why Edmund found himself accepting what is being offered to him.  It was with resignation, and with more than a moment of hesitation, but when deciding between a warm bed and a cobblestone street, was there really a choice to be made?

"I don't know when I'll be able to pay you back."

Still, Edmund knelt again and picked Mable up in his arms with the ease that comes only with having done it countless times before.  Mable, for her part, folded up comfortably in her brother's arms even asleep.  She was only just barely smaller than her brother, but Edmund held her like she weighed nothing.  Either he was stronger than he looked, or she was lighter than she looked.  Maybe both were true.

With the younger girl situated in his arms, all Edmund could do was look at Father Brennan.  What could he say?  What else was there to say?  Nothing, as far as he could tell.  He and Mable were in Father Brennan's care.