Freedom… is… fleeting.

Rather pessimistic, this one was, for that to be her only response. Or, Malachi reasoned, perhaps she simply did not wish to speak with him. During the few outings he had allowed himself over the years without the burden of his priestly vestments, he had noticed far more reluctance in other people when it came to… sharing the same space as him. Breathing the same air. Sharing secrets with someone that looked different from them.

A Roman collar demanded respect and gave him credibility to them. Without it?

He almost understood why his father had kept him locked inside.

The woman – former courtesan – continued tidying her appearance, slipping into her shoes and pushing off from the boulder. Malachi remained in place for a few moments longer, watching the way the wind swayed her pinned-up hair. At first, it seemed as if her second apology went ignored, or perhaps that he had not picked up the soft sound of her voice, before he pushed away from the rock he’d leaned against.

“I am sorry to have interrupted your swim, signora,” Malachi returned, sounding only slightly apologetic. He came to stand beside her, hands clasped comfortably behind his back, and followed her gaze out to the sea. “What’s your name? I imagine you are more than simply Mr. Carrington’s widow.”

That was, if Magnus Carrington was the murderer he was thinking of.