Aslan, a full-grown man, did what any full-grown man would do being caught out on something he’d rather not be: he rolled his eyes.

At least there were plenty of people with the same last name. His father’s case held no flame to, say, Magnus Carrington, and even less fire to those outside of law enforcement. But sometimes, sometimes, there was this perpetual news reader or that York busybody who fancied an encyclopedic knowledge of all the ne’er do wells.

Had he not stayed involved with local constabularies? Had he, instead, kept his head down weeding and whatever it was the Gardeniers did on the side to make life a little more livable? Perhaps his family’s shame would have finally faded … the known shame, at least.

All Malachi needed do was loom, but Aslan was picking up his pace to retrace his steps to where he’d left his sister last. An uncomfortable look over his shoulder as what he feared was voiced aloud. Not by the couch. Not anywhere in the room.

“Excuse me,” he butted in to a conversation near the couch.

The man and woman startled apart from what sounded like a tense conversation.

“Did you see where my sister went?”

“Oh, yes, she left already,” the woman said, with a glint of delight. “Weren’t you supposed to be walking her? She took Nettie instead.”

“Thank you,” Aslan called over his shoulder, already running to catch up with a much more long-legged priest.

Shit. Whether Malachi cared for her or not, he couldn’t see him being thrilled about this outcome.

But where would Nisa have brought her victim in such short order? He figured it was difficult to carry her ‘tools’ in her dresses, and she had been so insistent on getting both she and Malachi to ‘visit’. To give her maid a challenge.

“Nisa?” he called out. “Sorry to keep you waiting! Are you here?”

Please let her still be in shouting distance. Please let her still be in shouting distance.