"I'm going to stop yammering about eldritch horrors, because I said I would," Stacia announces, though she still wants to flush out additional information and compare it to what she already knows. Call it the curse of the Ragabash, letting go of a question is hard.

"I hope he doesn't lay them all himself," she says after a moment. It seems like a reasonably distracting topic. "That would be deeply unpleasant. I don't care how big or how magical he is, that is a lot of eggs to lay and paint and hide all at once."

Take the bait, Saturday. Stop thinking about incomprehensible horrors and join Stacia in contemplating the very comprehensible horror of the prospect of laying who-knows how many eggs over the course of days.