Listening to other people was one of the first things he had learned in life. Before the priesthood, before even the work he did for his father; silencing himself came innately, while the listening came from a learned need. There was more to be discovered in the way that someone spoke than in the words they chose, and he had figured out as much before he knew English at all.

The slightest of nods indicated that yes, he knew where Pennsylvania was. There was not much else he knew about it other than it being a state, but he supposed it must have been close to whatever part of the states had raised his father.

There were similarities in Edmund’s emerging accent and the one Malachi nurtured himself – certain points where they almost converged, before they fell away in opposite directions again.

Malachi hummed his acknowledgement. Edmund’s story did little but fan the flames of his curiosity, but he bit back his questions for another time.

“I have. Too many, I’m afraid.”

The boy had been so… candid with him. From what he could tell, at least. Malachi found himself warming to him quickly, and did not mind sharing when the youth was so forthcoming as well – if anything, he hoped that his own ease in answering would encourage him to tell him more.

“I find ships require more faith than I’m comfortable giving,” he added with a glance Edmund’s way. His smile – though small, and politely restrained – revealed a hint of his amusement.

“My father brought me to England when I was a child, and I was sick for days even after we made land. I’ve struggled with them since.”

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever told anyone that. There had never been any reason to. Malachi finally allowed his hands to rest behind his back, fingers interlaced, all ten of them bearing golden rings.

“Is there something in Whitby you’re here for? Or is this simply where the boat landed?”