Had Anita seen him as the thirty-something priest of far better education than she or the rest of her family could ever hope, perhaps she would have been cowed by unamused look this figurehead cast down on her.

But, no. No matter how far he came? In this state of inebriation, the young man beseeching her for clothes was an apple – and she the tree. So, she would bear fruit the ways her roots pulled her to. (And also soak thoroughly in other fruit, which … said something? Something deep, surely.)

Then Son James explained the depths of sin even he might sink to if Anita failed to shield him this time.

Anita looked to him, teetered. Teetered some more. Huh. She’d raised (failed to raise?) a right bastard. Must have been Harry’s side-… no, that was unfair. Her sister was a right cunt, too.

“James,” she said very seriously, then started ambling forward again with a mission. “You have two fists, too much brain, and not a single weepy, unwed missus getting the boys all riled up. If you were going to fuck it up,” she slapped … his elbow? bicep? something swinging in the vicinity of that, “we’d have heard by now, dear.”

James grew up so fast. She’d been more worried about future James than Noah at one point! Good Lord.

“… What about a stick?” she sighed, vision swimming too much to bother looking herself.

Her gait, however, was starting to grow steadier …