So a sudden, accidental coughing fit was offensive, but an intentional show of just how little he cared about teasing him in a crowd of other people was fine. Brought the lightest tint of color to his cheeks, even. Not that Malachi was looking (but he was).

“Ah,” he nodded. Just once, in that slow, solemn way that priests did, like they might not actually believe a word out of your mouth but were polite enough not to say so. Of course, the sister wanted something.

“Don’t we all.”

What, though? Spiritual guidance from a Catholic? The company of his niece? He doubted she had any interest in him, given the distanced disregard she’d carried herself with when he arrived.

Malachi glanced back to his niece, though the horde of chaperons and their ladies stretched them farther apart. If he hadn’t stood above most of them, he would have lost sight of her by now.

He didn’t care where the kitchen was, but more importantly, he didn’t want to hear whatever the detective had to say. Didn’t want to be told to shove off, or to figure out some plan for the next club meeting so that they wouldn’t see each other, or whatever other dismissive shit he was probably hawking, but he turned and motioned for him to lead the way.

“Alright,” Malachi relented, “show me then. Sate my thirst.”