Mr. Brennan received the stretch of silence he needed to rustle that name back up. A posh Mr. Kemble out there was going to get called George a lot.

Four more blocks.

“Is ‘Father’ a common first name around here?” Ropati asked casually, sun bearing down on them.

This was bad. Malachi felt terribly more scattered than usual, with the sun only barely missing the round brim of his hat and pressing down on him like the shadow of someone's shoe over an ant. What was worse, though, was that he couldn't make out if the question was a joke.

Hence why his laugh, short-lived as it was, sounded so unsure.

"I suppose so," was his response, given with a hint of a smile. "Although I won't claim that it's the most fitting for all of them."

Perhaps he shouldn't have been as open about that particular opinion, but Malachi voiced it as naturally as anything else. He could see the tower of a church growing nearer, though if it was the one Mister Fa'afili was taking him to, he was not sure.

"Do you happen to know what the people here are like?"

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.

That was a non-answer if he'd ever heard one. It did nothing to settle his nerves, jostled as they were by the prospect of this sudden new placement. Still, Malachi made note of the name and filed it away in his head, in case he ever had reason to deal with local law enforcement. With any luck, the only time he'd run into any of them would be when they attended his services.

Wishful thinking that was.

Malachi squinted at the upcoming church like he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. That was Saint Hilda's? He transferred his bag from one hand to the other, and pushed the brim of his saturno higher to take in the full sight of the church.

"Oh, I don't want to trouble you any more than I already have, Mister Fa'afili."

Even if the little conflicted glint in his eyes said otherwise when he looked back to him.

"I appreciate your help," said Malachi, and in spite of his distaste for the gesture, he held out his free hand.

Didn’t want to trouble him. Ropati braced a smile, for he’d been living in England for years. What he heard was British for “help me.” His eyes only clarified that.

Was Mr. Brennan’s shipping experience like Ropati’s? Almost certainly not. He didn’t smell like death, and his collar was bright as a dove. But he did figure anyone off a boat had not washed their hands in some time.

He’d already nearly caught the death of himself last tuberculosis wave.

“It’s no trouble,” he lied, sticking his hands in his pockets and continuing toward the church. “Is this your first church?”

How long did it take to hatch a priest these days? They put everyone in academies for the most mundane tasks. He’d had a woman who went to school to be a wife and then slept with everyone but her husband; his faith in European schooling was about as high as his faith, period.

Oh, thank God.

His relief was almost evident in the lowering of his shoulders, the release of some small measure of tension kept between them. Malachi pulled his hand back, endlessly grateful that he'd at least made the gesture first this time – that he didn't have to be the one refusing it.

Malachi resumed his steps, following quickly after Mister Fa'afili.

"No," he admitted with a slight shake of his head. "Far from it, actually. My previous church was in a much smaller settlement, though."

Not all of them had been, but that one was. As for why he had been transferred so frequently between parishes, that was another matter entirely, and a question he hadn't been asked.

"You're... certain that this is Saint Hilda's?"

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.

"The... priest did?"

From the way his smooth features hardly shifted, it was impossible to tell if Malachi was surprised or if he'd just misheard.

Whatever the case, he cleared his throat and his eyes darted back to the church. It didn't look quite like he'd pictured. Mister Fa'afili's reluctance to answer had not exactly instilled confidence either, but surely it was the nerves that were warping his thoughts so. Malachi nodded, then, continuing towards the quickly-approaching building.

'You're right," said Malachi, mostly in a bid to convince himself. "It is just different from what I had pictured. Long travels tend to disorient me for weeks after I've landed."

It was not entirely the truth, but it sounded better that way, than to admit that he'd been somewhat reluctant to relocate. His steps slowed as they neared the church, and stopped completely once they'd gotten near the door.

"You're sure that you don't mind? I don't wish to keep you from your schedule."

Was he just stalling before he went in? Maybe. But he looked convincingly thoughtful too.

Was it the priest? Was there anyone at these churches other than the priests on the off-hours? Ropati did a once-over of Mr. Brennan’s frock, trying to remember how the swearing ‘priest’ had been dressed.

Maybe not. He had been in mostly white rather than mostly black.

“I apologize, I am mistaken.”

Little did he know.

There was a sympathetic look Brennan’s way when he mentioned his disorientation. He hated so much as stepping on the ramp of a boat himself.

“I don’t envy you,” Ropati said. “Hopefully the next trip isn’t so bad.”

Priests were always getting moved around, right?

He was sure that he minded.

“Not at all, not at all,” were the friendly words that came out instead, and he held his hands out. “Here, let me take that.”

He was kind of wary this wilting lily might expire under the weight of his own luggage.

Why was Mister Fa'afili so insistent on taking his bag?

Malachi reminded himself, in the wake of his sudden defensiveness, that the older man had been nothing but polite thus far and likely only wanted to ease his burden. It was not that he cared if someone touched his things, but he was hesitant to part with it.

"Oh, ah... of course. Thank you, Mister Fa'afili."

After a quick glance down at the bag, he finally handed it over. Heavier than it even looked, filled with everything the priest had to his name, which... was not all that much, vow of poverty considered. Malachi's small smile turned somewhat sheepish.

He turned, light on his feet, and made to at least get the door for the one unfortunate enough to be carrying his weight.