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Pierrot remembers Franceschina in the morning, hanging prayers from the roofbeams, between onion and thyme.

“Who are they to?” he asked, bemused.

“Do they have to be to anyone?” She tiptoed to reach the doorframe. “Maybe they’re just prayers.”

“I think that defeats the purpose.”

“If you must know, they’re to everyone. Hera and Frigg and Ganesha and I Am, and Other Gods I Haven’t Heard Of But Maybe They’re The Real Ones.”

He grinned and kicked away coverlets. “You really think the smattering approach will work?”

“Nobody minds a little business mail,” she said, and hung one off his nose.