“Mr. St. Michel. Pray, cease blubbering and listen. It doesn’t matter why you are here. You are here. I am here. I assure you our mission is vital to the Crown. Critically vital. If we succeed, you’ll return to England wreathed in so many laurels you’ll resemble a damned topiary. And your Brother Pepys will spend the balance of his life choking on crow and addressing you as Sir Balthasar de St. Michel. But if we’re to succeed, we must first get down off this rock. Shall we proceed?” Balty nodded miserably. “Good. Careful, now.”
