“You’re welcome,” Ropati answered, turning his back to the door.

To the soap, at least.

Since when were Christians a commodity that had to be shipped in to England? The impression he had maintained was that there were so many of them, they ended up overflowing and pouring out to every corner, every island of the earth.

The water stopped, sooner than he would have hoped. He still heard that man scuffling around doing something. There was a pause in scuffling, and Brennan peeked out. He could see that little white patch on his frock in the unlit room … but what he heard was youthful uncertainty.

If he had a son, he would guess him somewhere around Brennan’s age. He probably didn’t.

Still ran the math every time he met a dark haired someone who could be twenty-two years younger than him.

There was a loud, dragging sound. Ropati’s face twitched, a slide of his eyes over his shoulder as though that alone could show him what he was hearing. His eyes shifted back to Malachi. They both knew this man was a thief. They both knew they were opting out of ‘dealing’ with it, regardless of whether or not they could make any accurate guesses to the other’s intent.

“Think he’s still there,” Ropati answered quietly back, unperturbed.

Nothing more, nothing less … though Ropati didn’t move out of Mr. Brennan’s way, either.