There was never an easy way to say something so radical. It was always the same, no matter if the heart of it was ‘I love you,’ ‘I’m a murderer,’ or worse, ‘I’m leaving the Catholic church.’

He wasn’t even leaving anything, not… yet. Probably not at all, if he could tear himself away from fantasies long enough to regain sense.

But if he was not seriously considering it, why did it matter so much to him that he told her?

Malachi kept his eyes downcast, on the hands that squeezed his own.

“I’m thinking of leaving,” he murmured. “The church.”

Not her. Not if he could help it. Not any of the few precious things he could afford to keep.

Never had he expressed his doubts, his disbeliefs, his frustrations with his priestly life. It had never felt appropriate, and he had always maintained hope that by not saying them, they would one day fade away. They’d festered inside him instead.

“That’s foolish of me to consider, isn’t it?”