“Cardinal Zizka, I must confess,” sang Baptiste as she pulled off her other boot and leaned back, wriggling her bare toes at the fire, “that I slipped while praying, my habit caught upon a stray nail, and my prick, engorged as it always is while filled with the love of our Lord, accidentally went up a lycanthrope’s twat.” “I have heard it all.” Balthazar stared off wide-eyed into the darkened forest. “The universe holds no mysteries for me any longer.”
