Which was brighter? The candle (wow, it had spread wide in an unflattering way), or Crane’s face? A wonder to behold, and Zechariah was smiling wide for it. There was the faintest of a flush to his own face.

“Crane. You? Shallow?” Zechariah taunted. “Here I thought it was my wit that you were after.”

Wanting him for his appearance was a perfectly valid reason, though he did rather prefer some fellating of his dazzling intellect, too. Those letters were retread for more than one reason.

The brow arched high at Crane’s pause. In need of punishment? Every single thing he heard about Catholics sounded more abashedly sexual than the last. What kind of acts? What kind of thoughts? Before he could bluntly inquire just that, Crane needed to know about his whipping traditions.

“I am not,” Zechariah answered, with a smile. “We beat our chests at the end of the year, but the Catholics? Oh, it seems the Catholics require a hard hand. Tell me more about these acts that … need, whipping.”