Sagramore sinks into a prayerful aspect beside him, folding his hands, and realizes as he does so that it's the first time he's felt willing to play games about the idea of religion. For so long he's felt such an instinctive revulsion towards anything to do with priests or the church, but with Grantaire it really doesn't bother him. Nothing's going to happen to him. It's fine to be ridiculous.

"Our devotion," he echoes, as the smell of vodka and burning canvas wafts up from the pyre.