“Oh,” the mention of a burning church seemed to pull some hint of a reaction, though even that was small. “That is unfortunate, I’m sorry to hear it.”

As for the rest of it, Malachi was not quite sure how to feel. While he nodded along in ever-polite acknowledgement as Fletcher explained his daughter’s situation, he could not help but wonder why he had approached him if he was not already certain of her desire for baptism.

There was a part of him that simply felt miffed by it. It was small, easily quieted. There were many reasons for a loving father to discuss the matter with a priest before he committed to the idea, regardless of the utter importance of the matter, and he reminded himself of that.

“About- myself?”

That earned a note of surprise, a subtle raise of dark brows. It was clear that the request was either not one he often heard or – perhaps more likely – often answered.

“Of course,” he conceded. “I’ve been St. Hilda’s head priest for just over a month, actually, and before that I served in several other churches in smaller towns – London, before that.”

He did so hope that this man was unaware of the scandal that came with changing diocese. Hoped he didn’t pry any further, because he was not sure what to say beyond the script he had prepared.

“I was raised there, in London. I’m afraid there isn’t all that much to me, beyond being a priest,” Malachi said with a sheepish smile. “But if there is anything you’d like to know that would make you feel more comfortable choosing my church, I’ll be happy to answer.”