"I suppose it must have been for magical purposes," Lesgle provides. "You know how witchcraft sorts of things are, the blood of a virgin, dew gathered from fresh rosebuds by moonlight, eye of newt, toe of frog, all that. I wasn't offended." Really, he wasn't. "But anyway, if she gathered it in cups, wouldn't that have been, what-do-you-call-it, you know, not sterile? With the microbes and all."

It had been an odd thing, the ship and the lake of fire. He ruminates on it for a little while, rubbing the ears of one of Feuilly's dogs. "--There weren't any sails. Did you notice any sails, Joly?"