The wooden floorboards creaked beneath Mary's deliberate steps as she entered the dimly lit parlor, the scent of aged books and dust heavy in the air. She clutched a worn Bible to her chest, eyes narrowing at the disarray before her.

"Jonathan," she called, her voice sharp as a whip. "I found your so-called literature hidden beneath your mattress. James Joyce? Blasphemous filth. It's time we had a word about the company you keep in your mind."

She gestured toward the chapel with a bony finger, a cold smile playing on her lips.

"Put on your Sunday best, boy. The Lord requires your attention."