Sister Seraphima gave me directions to the secret plot of cyclamen, and I made my way there the very next morning. Whilst gathering the pretty blooms, I hatched a little plot of my own. The delicate petals of the cyclamen reminded me of my own little petals from the times after vespers when I’d dared examine them in the darkened glass, and that gave me the idea: I’d rub the plump little flower petals against my cunny until the sap flavored my own secret skin. How could Father Baldini resist?

Later that morning, I perched on the sacramental fount, waiting for Father Baldini to amble by. Sure enough, he noticed the colorful bouquet I held innocently above my bare lap and strolled closer, his nose leading the way. Soon he was bent before me, sniffing deeply. “Glorious, child,” he intoned, his eyes feasting on my fattened petals, his lips about to follow. The plan would have worked perfectly, I’m sure, if only there hadn’t been that bee.