Marcus laughs, delighted rather than mocking, eyes creasing with the force of his smile. This, like everything else, explains a lot. "I'll tell him all that, word for word," he promises. "On my honour."

The Bishop's car keys are with the valet, and Marcus charms and/or gently threatens his way into rescuing his belongings. Shouldn't have brought the bag out, really, he thinks, stowing the Bible safely back at the bottom of the ancient rucksack where it knocks against rosary beads and candles. Hell, he shouldn't really have come.

He looks up at the manor from the driveway while the car comes around. Too big for light to get in, Tim had said. He'd had some trouble picturing it: like a schoolhouse, maybe? Like an old church? It's not. Too many people in the first, too much comfort in the latter. Now he gets it, sees a little of how the house folds in on itself, tucks its secrets away. The front windows are bright, smokers spilling out onto the steps — no Damian, of course. Alfred would have been careful to ensure their paths didn't intersect. He feels a twist of anger and guilt at the idea.

The car tyres crunch across the gravel. He gets in, propping the box on his lap and his elbows on its top, and then he picks up his phone and starts mapping out the quickest route to Paucity, Ohio.