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back to the stage, but the lecturer had moved in front of the woman now. Several in the audience were standing, hurling questions toward them, and their height further obscured her from his view. She hadn’t been struggling, and her eyes hadn’t been drugged. For whatever reason, he assumed she was here of her own free will. And he had pressing business elsewhere.
    Without another word, he pivoted on his heel and exited the theater.
     
    Upon Raine’s abrupt departure, the bishop ended his conversation with the ticket taker in midsentence.
    He’d seen the bulge that tented the crotch of Satyr’s trousers. His moody companion might pretend indifference to anything sexual, but that horrendous creature on the stage had piqued his interest.
    And since the bishop’s interest had been piqued by Satyr since he’d first seen him at the harvest festival nearly a year ago, he wasn’t particularly pleased to note the fact. He’d come all this way for the lecture on the off chance that this elusive Satyr son might attend. More reclusive than his two brothers, he rarely left their Tuscany estate. Despite the bishop’s best efforts, he’d only managed to spot him a half-dozen times last year, and then only from afar. Yet his infatuation had flourished all the more for being denied.
    He scurried into the hallway, watching Raine head for the other lecture hall. His eyes devoured the splendid shape of him. Of his broad shoulders, narrow waist, and muscled thighs.
    Many times he’d imagined those very thighs braced as he himself rutted between them. Imagined the cries of ecstasy he might rend from that man’s lips. Imagined him hard and begging.
    A sudden idea came to him. Perhaps he could procure the abomination on display in the theater for a private party of three later tonight. If Satyr were stimulated by the charms of La Maschera, perhaps he might not be averse to a certain suggestion the bishop hoped to put to him. Once sufficient wine had flowed between them all, perhaps other more personal fluids might be exchanged between them as well.
    He would speak to the surgeon onstage about hiring his creature for the evening or perhaps longer. But if he departed this theater, the white-coated lecturer might escape before he could deliver his request. Yet he couldn’t let Satyr get away without learning where he was lodging in Venice. What to do?
    As Raine’s steps quickly ate up the carpet ahead, the bishop made a decision. He turned back to the attendant who had trailed him into the hall. “I’ve decided not to attend the lecture on phylloxera tonight after all. I will take part in this lecture instead.”
    “But signore,” the man whined, preparing to launch into his rehearsed speech again.
    “Si, si. You needn’t hound me with your complaints again. What is the price of a ticket to this lecture?” he inquired, gesturing toward the door.
    At the attendant’s reply, the bishop handed him the money and a little something extra.
    “I will pay you again to return here to this theater later tonight and inform me when the gentleman who just went down that hall departs the other lecture for the streets,” he said.
    Pocketing his offer, the attendant nodded eagerly and started to move in the direction Raine had gone.
    The bishop grabbed his arm, staying him momentarily. “Do not let him know you’re watching him.”
    “No, no. Of course not. Rest assured I will be discreet.” Once he had bowed several more times, he was on his way.
    The bishop stared down the hall after him, hoping he could be trusted. Then he turned and re-entered the theater
    Several medical fools from the audience were onstage now with the abomination, still questing for answers. The hermaphrodite offended his eyes and its speech, his ears. But seeing it being poked and prodded raised his cock. He rearranged the skirts of his alb to conceal the fact and quickly found a seat in the back row.
    His hand slipped under folds of fabric, found his stiff prick,