There was only the smallest internal debate before Effie decided that, whatever happened, she wanted to be on top. Perhaps it is to her credit that as she tried to maneuver him back down onto the seat of the little boat and sit astride him in order to have her way with him, the line of pigtailed, singing Dutch automatons beneath their happy windmill did not cause her to feel any shame. It was a world of laughter. It was a world of tears.

There were hopes. There were fears. There was going to soon be some gasping and moaning and a diligent display of gyration technique as she dug her sharp magenta fingernails against Jack Horner's scalp. There was much to share and Effie was becoming more than aware that, in Luceti, it was a small world after all.