A spoiled rich boy? That was what he pictured?

Malachi returned his focus forward. Looked down at his hands, subtly turning one of them over. Soft hands, or so Mister Tully had claimed, but he'd be lying if he said they'd always been that way.

"Something like that," he replied, not bothering to raise his voice much above a mutter.

"You shouldn't talk with food in your mouth."

Was that a hint of indignation? Light, though, nearly transparent. Almost like the priest cared less about the manners and more about steering the conversation away from himself.