Some part of him wanted to venture further in his questioning, wanted to ask this stranger more about this place that he apparently did not live in. Did he at least frequent Whitby often? Did he know what the people were like? If they were any different from anywhere else he'd been? But such questions were unnecessary: the truth would find him whether he asked for it or not, and the people were likely just as unkind as they were everywhere else.

The stranger's voice cut through his concerns, dragging Malachi's attention back to him.

Malachi almost appeared hopeful, eyebrows raised in the shade beneath his hat. "Saint Hilda's. You know where it is?"