Mary Christof, Queen of Hearts

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Saints Jude and Rita

One bottle of water later, I felt a tad dozy, but it didn’t seem to matter because for once in the entire night I didn’t feel as though something was trying to asphyxiate me or subtly try to drive me completely mad by arising like a zombie in the room.

Everything seemed relaxed and less frenetic, aside from the rain and the stentorian gun boom plus chicken clucks from Vladimir’s next door--apparently a breakfast tradition held since 1755 as passively mentioned by one of the friars.

Notwithstanding, I wouldn’t worry; I was tired and now safe in the equally confused and equitable protections of two newfound saintly compeers, as was my wish from the beginning--however my spirited inquiry as to the betterment of myself and the utterly destroyed patois and argot with which I carried the earlier contretemps with Prince Royal didn’t quite allay the grounded fears I had had over my sanity slipping.

“Bona sero Mariae bonum servi mei amicissimi homines, quales oportet primum movens fortunati meruisse favorem ... quid ego faciam sine meis ego nihil Mariae, nihil sum sine te - et hunc mihi timorem partes tangibiles prosequantur.

Magis mori quam ut educam populum caecum , et potius quam exanimarentur abducant.”

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