Anita’s upper lip twitched in a way not entirely voluntary. Had her surprisingly tall priest-son taught one of her … her daughters (God above, each and every one of them looked too much like her) to speak, uh. Russian?

Eyes blearily blinked open and squinted at shapes that did not want to make coherent patterns. Ah. That was a face. And … red hair? Oh, oh no. This was a Ward.

Anita closed her eyes and sunk into an even more deeply uncomfortable position.