The possibility of his underlings who went to check on the exit being ambushed never even crossed the pope's mind.
Well, actually, maybe it did — just for a fleeting moment, like a whisper of common sense brushing against his hope-driven brain before being swatted away by his overwhelming desire for self-preservation. The instinct to save his own skin had jumbled his otherwise sharp, calculating mind, turning it into a malfunctioning abacus of denial.
He put his cup of tea down carefully, as if it were the most delicate and crucial task of his entire existence. For a man who claimed to have unwavering faith in the divine, he certainly treated his porcelain more reverently than his followers.
