Take money? Those were donations that the congregants put into those little saucers. Donations that, if not given, would earn said congregants some rather disapproving looks and another few rounds of the saucer to change their mind, but donations nonetheless.

So, not donations at all.

Malachi figured it might be a bit much to agree so openly.

Fingers dragged through his hair, scrubbing out the soap until all that drenched it was clear water. He gave another hum as he lifted his head, and did his best to push his freshly-cleaned hair up and away from his face. It worked, mostly. His cassock was dampened at his shoulders and he felt more like a drowned rodent than he'd really planned on, but it felt better, too. He dried off the bar of soap.

"Could you let me ou--" oh. The door opened when he pushed on it, no longer hindered by Fa'afili.

Malachi stepped out. Looked one way, then the other, and followed with haste when he caught sight of Mister Fa'afili's form disappearing into the sanctuary. He made it in there by the time the older bothered to look for him, holding the bar of soap between his folded hands, behind his back.

"Ah, yes," he nodded, solemn. "A sacred duty, lunch. Perhaps it would be best if we returned later, once Father Peter has had his meal?"

He didn't even want to come back here. The bishop must have known what he was doing, in sending him to a place like this. Especially not after this Father Peter realized--

Wait.

Malachi leaned a little closer to his traveling companion.

"...Father Peter?" he whispered. "I was told there was only Richards and Kemble."