"I was eleventh of thirteen," Crozier tells him, wry. Eight sisters, Jopson can do the math on brothers. "'Bless her', some would say."

Personally, he thinks having thirteen children sounds like hell, and to this day doesn't know how all of her insides didn't fall out long before she had him. But his mother outlived his father in the end, despite having done all the brutal bits. Spent her last years being pampered in the house she populated and ran like matron, playing with cats and a surprisingly modest number of grandchildren, well earned. He should have gone back to see her while she was doing it, and not just to sign papers over her headstone. But sailing against the turning of the Earth does not send one back in time. He's checked.

Feels like ages ago now. You're the oldest, aren't you. Three younger ones. Big brother Thomas.

He sits forward, a playful look to him—

"It was nice. And if you think you did so modestly, why don't we have another round? Boots off, I'd rather contrive some other way to see you bend over tomorrow than polishing floors."

A filthy flirtation, but he delivers it so lightly that it almost sounds innocent.