It wouldn’t have come as a shock had the boy declined his offer. Who was Malachi but a stranger to him? What was he but an unknown variable, tossed in their direction by fate or God or whatever else saw fit to drive them together. He was a priest, sure, and wielded what respect was afforded to him on account of it, but should they put their trust in him because of that?

Malachi wouldn’t have. If it had been him standing there, Nettie fast asleep against his leg, he wouldn’t have trusted him.

But he never met a man worthy of his trust, back then. When it had just been him, still a child himself, caring for a girl that deserved so much more than he could give – there hadn’t been someone offering a helping hand without expecting more in return. The only one that tried was devoured by his father’s hunger for control.

There was a shift in him at the boy’s statement; a hairline crack in his defenses. He only hoped that the pain that clutched his chest was not as visible on his face as it felt.

“So don’t,” he said. Watched him lift the girl into his arms, a motion that looked as easy as breathing for him. Malachi stopped himself from walking closer and offering to carry her, despite that clawing urge in him to take the burden off of the boy’s shoulders. He knew well that he probably didn’t consider it a burden in the first place.

Starting slowly back towards way he came, Malachi explained, “I’m sure there’s one nearby. I’m still figuring out where things are, myself, but we’ll find somewhere. What should I call you?”

Of course Father Brennan would dismiss any suggestion Edmund made at repayment.  That was a holy man's nature, wasn't it?  To give and not expect anything in return?

The idea was as foreign to Edmund as the town around them.  It sounded tiresome.

Privately, Edmund swore to replay the man for his kindness, one way or another.

"Eddie," he replied, voice soft and simple and plain.  As if this wasn't the first time he introduced himself by that name.  As if he'd introduced himself as such his entire life.  "Edmund.  Reynolds.  This is my sister, Mable."  That part, at least, was true.

What other information would a stranger expect from him?  He had no idea.  There was so much to say, and so little at the same time.  Edmund had no idea where to start, or if he even should.

In the end, the boy elaborated on nothing else.  If Father Brennan wanted to know something, he'd ask in his soft voice.  Except, not Edmund was wondering if there was anything he should be asking Father Brennan.  Their conversation so far has been brief, and the boy wracked his mind for something once again.

"You... you're new too?  Where'd you come from?"

He was willing to give a name, and that was more than enough for Malachi.

“Nice to meet you, Eddie.”

The circumstances could have been better, but there was truth to it, all the same. Edmund seemed a kind enough kid, even wary as he was, and it was obvious how much he cared for his sister.

That was more important to the priest than any hesitance or irritation he’d been met with thus far.

Still, their appearance on the street begged the question of why they were out here all alone. Being new, shouldn’t they have some sort of guardian around that’d surely helped them find their way to Whitby? Malachi didn’t touch on that, not yet, but it lingered at the back of his mind as he led them at a casual pace.

“I am, yes. St. Hilda’s needed a new parish priest,” he said first, while he considered how to answer the boy’s question. It was a simple one that should have had an easy answer, but it didn’t. There were far too many answers of varying truths.

He came from London, in part. From Joseon, originally. From a small village’s church that Edmund likely wouldn’t have ever even heard of, more recently.

The street widened out some as he led them off of the smaller path and onto the main one.

“I was at a different church, in a town too small to be worth mentioning,” Malachi admitted. “I grew up in London, though. What about you two?”

Father Brennan called Edmund by his name like that's what it was.  It was one thing for Edmund to convince himself of the identity, but it was another entirely to have someone else believe it.  He hoped the surprise didn't show too obviously on his face.

Carefully, he adjusted his grip on Mable's shoulder as he listened to the man speak of things he didn't know about and things he did.  London and parish priests were distant concepts to him, in knowledge now more than proximity, but he knew all about small towns not worth mentioning.  He spent eighteen years of his life in one.

"We're from the United States.  Pennsylvania, if you know where that is."  It was a small thing, but as Edmund's defenses lowered, more and more of his accent became distinguishable, affirming his words.  Smaller than that was the upward turn of the boy's mouth as he recalled home, only to melt away as he continued.

"Maybe two months ago, now, we left for New York.  Got on a boat.  Now we're in England."

Edmund tilted his head one way and then the other, the gesture the closest thing to a shrug he could achieve holding his sister in his arms.  There was more to the story than that, of course, but so much of it was... indecent, the voyage especially.  Too many nights staying up, trying to keep food down, worrying about future ifs and past should haves.  If Edmund were lucky, he'd never have to do something like that again.

"Have you ever been on a ship, Father?"

Listening to other people was one of the first things he had learned in life. Before the priesthood, before even the work he did for his father; silencing himself came innately, while the listening came from a learned need. There was more to be discovered in the way that someone spoke than in the words they chose, and he had figured out as much before he knew English at all.

The slightest of nods indicated that yes, he knew where Pennsylvania was. There was not much else he knew about it other than it being a state, but he supposed it must have been close to whatever part of the states had raised his father.

There were similarities in Edmund’s emerging accent and the one Malachi nurtured himself – certain points where they almost converged, before they fell away in opposite directions again.

Malachi hummed his acknowledgement. Edmund’s story did little but fan the flames of his curiosity, but he bit back his questions for another time.

“I have. Too many, I’m afraid.”

The boy had been so… candid with him. From what he could tell, at least. Malachi found himself warming to him quickly, and did not mind sharing when the youth was so forthcoming as well – if anything, he hoped that his own ease in answering would encourage him to tell him more.

“I find ships require more faith than I’m comfortable giving,” he added with a glance Edmund’s way. His smile – though small, and politely restrained – revealed a hint of his amusement.

“My father brought me to England when I was a child, and I was sick for days even after we made land. I’ve struggled with them since.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever told anyone that. There had never been any reason to. Malachi finally allowed his hands to rest behind his back, fingers interlaced, all ten of them bearing golden rings.

“Is there something in Whitby you’re here for? Or is this simply where the boat landed?”

If the Father was put off by Edmund's short answers, he did not show it, and the boy was grateful for that.  He was doing his best not to lie, exactly, but dance around the unattractive truth he was sure Father Brennan would not approve of.  And it seemed his small amount of honestly were appreciated and returned in kind, alongside discreet smiles and jokes Edmund bit his cheek to keep from smiling too widely in response to.  He'd never imagined a priest could run out of faith, but if there was ever a thing that took too much of it, Edmund agreed that a ship was exactly it.

Remaining sick far after coming back on land was something Edmund resonated with as well, and he nodded deeply at the man's mention of it.

"If I never have to get on a ship again, it'll be too soon."

More vigilant now that he'd had some proper conversation to wake him, Edmund quickly followed Father Brennan's hands as they linked behind his back, but he did not feel as suspicious as he would have a few minutes before.  He glanced at the man's face as he was questioned further, and then continued his gaze ahead, not glancing back to the ring adorned hands again.

"No, we landed a few days ago, over in..."  Edmund trailed off, the town's name escaping him.  He shook his head.  "I can't recall the name.  Mable is better with things like that than I am, maps and signs and directions."  It certainly helps that she's able to read them, of course, but he's not comfortable enough yet to divulge that piece of information just yet.

"We're not looking for anything in particular, here or anywhere.  Just wandering.  Travelling.  Mable's always wanted to, so I thought..."  He took a breath.  What did he think?  Even now, he wasn't sure.  "I thought - we might as well.  No one left to stop us."

Surprisingly enough for a town dependent on the sea, this was not the first time in his short stay that Malachi had heard such a sentiment. He assumed it would also not be the last.

Oh, God. Was his confessional, too, going to be filled with ship-related complaints?

There were enough congregants that used it as a place to vent already.

He took note of the way Edmund’s eyes tracked the movement of his hands. They rested in a loose, comfortable hold at his back, and now and then the moonlight glittered on the gold. It was a good thing he’d worn them out tonight – he didn’t exactly carry money on him. Certainly not enough to pay for a room and whatever else the adolescents might require.

“Ah. I’m awful with directions too,” Malachi admitted, suppressing the cringe that crept up on him as he recalled his first day in town. It hadn’t been entirely his fault that he went to the wrong church – who named two churches after the same saint in the same town? – but being directionally challenged had not helped.

Another low hum. Malachi did not miss the implications of ’no one left to stop us.’

“I see,” he continued walking south from the bridge, along the river. He knew he’d seen some sort of hotel on another of his walks, though that’d been during the daytime – what had it been called? Angel? He just hoped that it was nice enough.

“Do you think you’ll be staying long, then? It’s a charming place… from what I’ve seen of it. If you can ignore all the ships,” he said. “I would be happy to help you establish yourselves here. If you wanted.”

Whether their travelling was out of necessity, or simply out of desire to see more of the world, he didn’t know. But the boy had already confirmed that there wasn’t anyone else around to help them.

Edmund's head tilted one way and stayed there a moment, considering Father Brennan's words genuinely.

The thought of he and Mable establishing themselves in town was intimidating, but.  It'd be nice to have someone in their circle, especially if that someone was Father Brennan.  Edmund couldn't say for sure just yet, but he thought Mable would get on with him well.  Mable got on well with everyone.

"I'm not sure yet," he settled on, possibly the most objectively truthful thing he'd said all night.  "I'll ask Mable her thoughts in the morning, but... I think I'd like to.  It wouldn't hurt to stop for a bit and earn some coin, at the very least."

That way, they won't need to rely on friendly strangers wandering around at night offering to pay for a bed for them.  Edmund really doubted it would happen to him again.

Reminding himself of the circumstances of the kindness afforded to them, Edmund glanced up at the taller man, looking him up at down curiously.

"What were you doing walking around late at night yourself, Father?  Why aren't you resting yourself?"

The answer was good enough for the priest, if the slight upwards curve of his mouth meant anything. It was a different smile from the last one; more genuine, even in its subtlety.

“I think that would be a good idea,” came his quiet agreement.

If there was anything that Edmund and Mable were running from, he prayed it would not find them here. Whitby was as fine of a place as any to rest one’s head… though he was not unaware of the hypocrisy there would have been in saying that.

Apparently Edmund was not unaware of it either.

A soft laugh escaped him upon being called out, and Malachi toyed idly with the rings on his fingers, spinning them in place.

“I don’t sleep very well,” he explained, dark eyes focused forward.

It was a bit of an understatement. He didn’t sleep much at all, until his body wore itself out enough to have no other choice. His newfound devotion to his vows meant that it’d only be harder here in Whitby.

“And I get restless in the presbytery. I thought it would be nice to explore, since I’m not sleeping anyway- oh, there’s the hotel, that building there.”

Malachi gestured to the aforementioned building up ahead. The darkness prevented a good viewing of it, but it looked… nice. Really nice, in fact. That was a little worrisome. He glanced at the boy and his sister as they approached it.

“I’ll go in first and sort things out,” he suggested. “Have you eaten?”

The real question was, do you need food?

Edmund thought it strange for just a moment that a priest could become restless in - whatever a presbytery was.  Some sort of church, he assumed.  Shouldn't a priest feel at home in a place like that?

But then, Edmund was running away from his own home, wasn't he?

He would not judge Father Brennan for his nightly hobbies, then, especially not while the man was actively helping him.

Even in the pale light on the street, the place looked... extravagant.  Expensive.  The boy paused for just a heartbeat as it was pointed out to him, doubt and guilt building up in his stomach.  There must be a cheaper place nearby, right?  Edmund couldn't let the Father spend so much on him and his sister and sleep well right after, to matter how tired he was.

Before he could object, though, Father Brennan asked him a question he did not know how to answer, worse than the ones before.  Technically, no, he had not eaten, but he was also not hungry.  Mable he knew for certain was hungry - or at least was before falling asleep.  But if Edmund said that, the man would feel the need to spend more money yet on them, just to feed them.  On the other hand, if Edmund said no, Mable would have to go hungry for another night.

Not for the first time that night, Edmund felt crushed under the weight of the world.

"Father," he started uncertainly, "this place looks... I don't think they'd like to have kids like me and Mable soiling their beds."

He tried to keep his tone light, though he could not judge how successful he was.  Intentionally, he did not answer the Father's question, hoping to buy himself more time to solve his dilemma.