She was grim faced as she opened the gate into the small graveyard along side the church that Constance used to frequent. The woman had not been devout but she had made it a point to be seen at church, for to do otherwise would have caused some speculation. Of course, Amelia had ever been by her side in the last year of her life. And now she had to move on, she was out of a job due to the death of her dear friend and employer.

Amelia approached the still-fresh mound of dirt and the fancy headstone that was a rather large statue of a younger Constance - she would have adored it, depicted as an angel. Of course, the woman had morbidly asked for such a thing in the weeks leading up to her death.

She was supposed to talk to the lawyer soon about last wishes and such, as Constance had only distant relatives who barely made contact with her.

Amelia's fate was up in the air. She had quickly put an advert out for a new position earlier that morning. That made it even worse for her as she grieved. "Oh, Constance, what am I to do without you?" She sighed and moved to her knees at the side of the grave. And there she sat in silence, staring at the stone feet of the angel as the burgeoning twilight began to darken the sky and the sunset cast golds and pinks against a canvas of fluffy clouds.

When the darkness settled in, she quietly cried for the loss of the woman who had been good to her.

The afternoon was sure to stretch into another sleepless night. If only to prove to himself that he'd made some effort to change it, Malachi stepped quietly out of the church, with the intention to at least appear for a meal for Mrs. Higgins' sake. If he were an argumentative man, he might have argued that he ate plenty enough to sustain himself without needing as much food as she provided -- but it was truer still that he wouldn't suffer from a bit more weight on him.

It was by chance that his gaze, in its leisurely sweep of the darkening sky, caught the kneeling silhouette of the graveyard's visitor. The sight stopped him in his path, footsteps cut short beyond the other side of the fence. For a moment he simply stood there, peering down, listening to her quiet cries. Not everyone wished for company in their grief, after all, even (or sometimes especially) when it came in the form of a priest.

Without having entirely made up his mind, Malachi turned back towards the church and disappeared with a swish of black cloth. A few short minutes later, he emerged again with what appeared to be a blanket of some sort on his arm, colored plainly, and slipped through the graveyard's gate.

Malachi made an effort to walk over stones where his steps might be heard, so as not to startle the woman in his approach. Once he'd made it nearer to the grave, he leaned down just enough to hold the blanket out to her. Just in case she caught a chill, or wished to lay it beneath her so that her clothes might not be dirtied as she sat.

Low voice made soft against the silence of the graveyard, he spoke.

"Are you alright?"

She was startled even still, having been caught in the act of weeping. Amelia wiped her face; cold by now. She looked up toward the figure that was lit only dimly by the reflection of light on the moon. "Yes... I am sorry if I gave you a startle, me being here after dark." She accepted the blanket after a moment of contemplation, pulled it around her and let the warmth of it gently cradle her. Her eyes filled with tears again.

"I'm sorry..." she whimpered and the sobs just belted out of her then. Heartwrenching ones. Oh, God, what was she going to do? The girl was clearly both heartbroken and looking like a lost lamb right about then.

Her hands moved to her face to cover it, the blanket slipped down the drab shoulders of a black dress, feeling a bit overwhelmed. she took several long, deep breaths and seemed to calm herself. Miss Mason stumbled to her feet, gave a few sniffles, and turned to gaze at the man who had come to help her. "May I go inside for a few moments so I may pray?" Her voice was higher pitched than normal. a side effect of having cried.

It plucked at the strings of his heart to have startled her. In the midst of her grief, she needed no other disturbances, but it was far too dark out now and much too cold to let her sit among the graves all alone. Once the blanket was taken, Malachi looked to the grave that sat before her. Recently placed, he knew, though he had spent little time in the graveyard when it was not called upon him to do so.

A whimper drew his eyes back to her. Malachi lowered himself to kneel beside her, but did not interrupt her sobbing. While she struggled through the weight of what must have been a dear loss, he took a breath of cool evening air, and assured, "there's nothing to be sorry for."

Whether her apologies were meant for him or for the woman buried beneath them, he didn't know. But he was certain of his answer all the same.

Only once she stirred again did Malachi rise. He followed her to stand, cautiously holding out an arm in case her stumbling went too far. When she had steadied herself, his eyes returned to her face, only somewhat illuminated by the pale light above.

"Of course. You can stay as long as you need, miss, it's not an issue," Malachi said with a dip of his head. He gestured to the gate, and started towards it to hold it open for her to pass through.

"Thank you," she said and nodded slowly, then moved just as slowly toward the entryway of the church. She went inside only to go to the nearest pew and seated herself. The light of flickering candles drew her attention first, and then the size of the room drew her eyes upward toward a vaulted ceiling painted in a hand from the baroque period. Cherubs everywhere, of course. It was something that always fascinated her.

The soft glow of said candles revealed the face of a lovely young lady of obviously good breeding, wearing clothing meant to dim her beauty and nothing so lovely as what her late mistress had worn. "Miss Harlowe never introduced me to any of the clergy here." She was to be seen and not heard in public, not draw the attention off of the vivacious woman, which suited Amelia just fine. A sniffle happened and then she said, "I have to think on how to pray. It has been quite some time, I daresay."

As slowly as the woman that walked before him, Malachi ascended the steps and entered the candlelit church once more. Dinner would have to wait, but then he hadn't really felt up to it in the first place... so perhaps it was a blessing, to have stumbled across the woman and her sorrows.

The light was less revealing of him than it was of her. Where the flicker of flames highlighted her obvious beauty, it cast wavering shadows over Malachi's face. He was older than her, much older, but he looked nothing like the men of Whitby with their scruffy beards and weathered skin. The only immediate, recognizable thing about him was that he was most certainly a priest. A tall priest.

"Oh," Malachi let the door gently close behind him. "I'm Father Brennan, I've only been here a short time."

The young lady had already taken her seat. It was no surprise that she didn't know him; hardly anyone in Whitby knew him yet, excluding those that attended services most frequently. Heading to the pew that stood just in front of her, Malachi seated himself and turned so that he could look at her without intruding too far.

"Whatever comes to mind is enough," he offered. Too many people were driven from prayer for believing that it had to be something complicated, or elaborate, or that it had to make sense -- and it didn't. "I find it's easiest to pray when you think of it as less of a request, or a statement, and more as a conversation. God listens no matter the message, or the letter that you send it in."

She nodded and closed her eyes. Amelia was so very tired all of a sudden and glad for the support of the pew under her, else she fall. Her lower lip went in between her teeth as she silently conversed with the Lord. She prayed for the soul of her friend, she prayed for all kinds of things really. It was clear that she was not catholic, for she did not cross herself, and the fact that she'd seated herself before anything? Yeah.

She looked up after a while and said, "Amen."

Allowing her the silence needed, Malachi remained as he was. He did not stare, but he did watch her for a moment once her eyes were closed, a thoughtful expression painted on his face. How tired she seemed, in her weary grief, and if it hadn't been late in the evening, he might have reached out to steady her. Alone and unfamiliar as they were, though, Malachi kept his distance.

Once the woman had finished her prayer, he offered a reassuring smile. It might have been obvious that she was unfamiliar with the associated rituals of the Catholic church, but Malachi was hardly bothered by her sincere attempt.

"What's your name, miss?" He supposed a question might lighten any pressure she might have felt, or at least hoped that it would.

"You were close with Miss Harlowe?"

"I'm Amelia Mason... her companion," she murmured, her smoky eyes tired as they met his. Her mouth turned upward ever so slightly when she noticed the smile, but it only lasted a moment. She sighed and stood, but sat back down, "I was to be seen and not heard... I don't know if that answers about how close I was to her, but she would talk to me when we were alone." She sniffed, "And now I have no place to go because I am sure the lawyer will tell me I must vacate her home. My father made it clear that I had no place in the church."

Her fingers came up to pinch her nose.

Amelia Mason... he'd not heard the name before. That was less an indication of her status and more so just a truth about himself, and his relatively recent arrival in Whitby. Even the late Miss Harlowe he hadn't known until he had helped preside over her service, as he did for all the deaths within his church.

Malachi listened patiently, turning a little more in his seat to better face her. As close to the door as they were, the candles strewn across the altars reached them only with the edges of their flickering light. A small frown tugged at the edges of his mouth.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Mason. I'll be praying that the legal matters are settled easily," offered Malachi, before he finally moved to stand. His movements were slow as he rounded the pew, and he took care to sit a good distance away from the woman when he joined her on hers instead, but he didn't wish for her to feel as alone as she looked.

"Why did your father say that?"