Across the road a wiry group of youths sculpted by scanty food and occasional manual labour lounge against the frontage. All wear eye-sets – chitinous, intimidations reeking of testosterone.
Poliamuel flutters down to place a scroll on the cushions near Leandré’s free hand. At first it’s no bigger than a rolled up postage stamp, but in seconds it swells into a handsome cylinder capped with a sliver crown.
“That’s right. God is not human. And from my experience, he’s got a very long memory – an ‘inhumanly’ long memory. Don’t expect him to forgive you.”