“The other- shit,” she whispered the word, like that would hide it from her [apparent] child’s precious, innocent, and yet nonetheless full grown ears. “Is he still around?”

Shit, shit, shit. She turned her glassy gaze upward, letting out a sound like a centuries-rusted door creaking open. Was she going to get kicked out of the church in front of her own son? … Father-son. That was going to take some getting used to.

Claude was so, tall. Shot up like a weed some time over the past … twenty … what, years?

Then, his words parsed. That priest was a thief? She opened her mouth, then frowned, then raised her brows in bleary relief. He was a thief. That absolved her.

After all, she was a parishioner – not a priest. Surely the standards were lower!

“Yes, of course,” she said, though there was a touch of flustered in her haze.

Their clothes had rarely fit well as children, and now Claude had outgrown Harry. Which meant …

“Help me up,” Anita grunted, holding her hands out to him.