Huh. What an excessive fellow. He’d considered pointing out some of his own hiding places, lest Malachi be hard on luck … but it sounded as though those gold rings were just the start of his advantages. Of course he’d be an eccentric rich.

What did that say of the rest of his lifestyle, then? Was this priesthood a holiday from his usual, on the hunt for a new type of victim? Or perhaps, as one of the women at the brothel liked to speak of, he was one of those types who liked to throw himself over the laps of the less fortunate for some strange sort of carnal penance.

The strangely easy agreement was hardly a signed contract … but he supposed that meant Malachi was going to holiday here? Was he not already on some sort of strange, self-imposed holiday here? How long had he been a priest, even? Long enough to get moved multiple times by his own admission, but who knew if that were weeks or years.

There was a shift behind Malachi, at the suggestion. Before Aslan could make any answer to it, however, a man was moving through.

“Mr. Walters,” he greeted, out of habit.

“Mr. Koch,” he answered back absently as he passed to the pantry.

Damn it.

“Of course, Father,” he said to Malachi, polite and aloof once more.

It was far from a confusing path, though it had begun to quiet down. Substantially. He heard men. Men, men, and more men. A woman who sounded more mature than either Nisa or Nettie, and men again. His meander at just ahead of whatever pace Malachi set picked up, hands sliding into his pockets with the briefest of uncomfortable looks flitting across his face.