Père Brennan didn’t respond. Chéri didn’t insist. They were not accustomed to force anyone’s truth out of their mouth, even though normally they read it on their body and found it easy to guess. But whatever Malachi had to show was hidden half by his demeanour and half by his robe.

The priest was patient with them, again and again and Chéri was keenly aware of it, like a prey trying to identify a shadow as a hunter or a casual passer by. Not yet a friend, even though they were testing him for that, in some capacity.

Chéri was following and stopped suddenly when the other turned, making an effort to make some noise, aware of their stealth.

Chéri nodded, taking the answer in. Chéri shook their head “I’m trying to understand what my options are.” And having those two syllables as their name sounded only natural.

“I also need to know if I can easily be reached, here,” they added, still weary of confidence to an extent, but determined to bring themselves to trust Père Brennan at least to some degree with more than what was absolutely essential.