Using the ash of burned citrus peels, we create a thick slurry, the main ingredient in our day-masks. Once my slurry is mixed with pigment and urine, I form it into a vaguely porcine visage. Peter presses a fat thumb into its forehead, and places it into his cob kiln. I do the same for him; I still consider his elegant vespid creation to be the finest mask I've seen.
Down below the wanking hut and the grease pit, Peter and I, the pig and the wasp, fetch the bookbinder's laundry. We hide brass letters in her pockets, letters she will arrange and rearrange to find the words to the incantation.
One day, months or even years hence, she will have finally come to the final configuration. She will print and recite the incantation and we will sleep, our stolen masks melted for ink.