Chapter Twenty Three: In Which We Pause for Thought

What do you think, gentle reader? Is Ralph the Timid in spite of his years of cuddling baby sisters on his knee about to discover the truth about his birth? Was he abandoned on the mountain side by royal parents anxious to protect him from destiny?
Have we met his brother already? There are so many questions. Inquiring minds want to know. But this is the time where we pause for thought and take stock of the situation.
At this moment, Ralph the Timid is sitting in the library of Mad Pete, trying not to think that he might have been better off without going on his adventure. He had thought that on going this adventure to seek his purpose would be fun. He had thought that it would be good for him. He had thought that finding out his birthdate would be a weight off his mind. Instead he was now in this conundrum. Was he going to turn into a raving lunatic? Was Mad Pete telling this story to him for a reason, other than had he just been forced into it? But Mad Pete knew about Ralph's quest. Was he telling him as a way to working up to some very bad news?
At this moment, Mad Pete is also in the library of Mad Pete. He is torn between two thoughts. The first is a pleasant reverie of the good times. He remembers fondly the popularity he enjoyed. He also remembers the money and the adoring looks of the public and the job satisfaction. The second is fear. Had he done the wrong thing? And how was young Ralph going to take the next thing he had to say? He was looking nervous already. Had he guessed?
At this moment, Ginger McSporran, the black beast of the caves, was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace in the library of Mad Pete. He was stroking Twinkle and thinking two things. The first was along the lines of "Well, this is not going to turn out well." The second was "He still hasn't explained the parcel that was left in my caves." Ginger McSporran was a very single minded black beast.
At this moment, Twinkle is sleeping happily in front of the fireplace being stroked by the giant hand of his master, Ginger McSporran. He is not thinking anything much except cat thoughts, which are not terribly relevant or interesting to the other occupants in the room who are experiencing a crisis. Well, perhaps that is not entirely true. Ralph the Timid would probably like to know when ever the "bite" thought came into Twinkle's head, but otherwise the sentiment stands.
So that covers Ralph the Timid, Ginger McSporran, Mad Pete and Twinkle. But what about Lady Ann and Prince Rupert?
Well, Lady Ann is still bored. What did you expect? She has not been able to escape. She has thrown innumerable paper darts at the wall. She has rearranged the order of her kitten pictures at least three times every day. She has positioned her Prince Rupert whacking bottle in the ideal place to a) conceal it from her villainous swain's servants, lest they discover it and take it away from her and b) have it conveniently at the ready should Prince Rupert take it upon himself to visit her. She has done her daily pacing. And now - a slight moment of interest to brighten her otherwise tedious and routine day - someone had knocked on her door. Picture her there in her room, standing halfway between her bed and the table, staring at the door. Who could that be? Was it Prince Rupert? Could she get to the bottle in time? It is a moment frozen in time. We will not know until we get to the next chapter. We shall have to wait and see.
And that just leaves Prince Rupert. He has contemplated his villainy. He thinks he has been quite nice to his prisoner. He has climbed up a lot of stairs. A lot of stairs. A huge amount of stairs. He has regained his breath. He is about to knock the door of his captive romancee. We know all this. But how do we consider him in the light of recent revelations? We know he is the son of a King. Or at least we can assume that he is, given he is a Prince, after all. We know that he is evil, so the year of the snake fits as a birth date. We know he has a scar on his cheek. Could he be the evil older twin of which Mad Pete spoke? Time will tell.
Well actually, Mad Pete will probably tell. He was Boris the Brilliant. He must have records. He will be able to tell us with it was the ruling house (or at least, the erstwhile ruling house) of Xanadu. We shall see.The point is that we had to have a summary there. All good things take time.

(Word Count: 31019)

Chapter Twenty Two: In Which We Finally Hear Mad Pete's Story

Mad Pete's story went approximately like this.
Mad Pete had been incredibly successful. He had been beyond successful. Phenomenal. Amazing. Astonishing. His fame had spread throughout the land and beyond. He sometimes got abducted by pirates who wanted him to come and make charts for them, and he always managed to make them such wonderful charts that they would let him go before they even got him back to the sea. Granted the Low Plains were a fairly long way from the sea, and pirates were always a bit slow on land, being unaccustomed to walking on a surface which stayed still all the time, but all the same, weren't Ralph and Ginger impressed at his chartmaking prowess? Wasn't it amazing? Wasn't he, Mad Pete - or has he was known then, Boris "the Brilliant" Blockoff -just so incredibly marvellous?
Ginger and Ralph hadn't been too impressed. He wasn't really getting on with the story, they said. He was just bragging. And if he was so good, why hadn't they heard of him? Surely if his fame had spread to every corner of the land and even across the seas, it would have spread into the mountains, even to remote villages like Ralph's?
That was just it, said Mad Pete. They had hit the nail on the head. The crucial point. They had their fingers on the pulse all right. Why hadn't they heard of him if he was so famous? Well, to start off with, smarty pantses, you (to Ginger McSporran) live under a rock. You can't deny it - holding up a hand to ward off any criticisms - you do! And you don't get that many visitors. And you (to Ralph the Timid), well, by the time you were born I wasn't famous any more. I'd retired.
A pause. A long, heavy pause.
No, that was not quite true. Mad Pete corrected himself. He didn't want to mislead them. He hadn't really retired. But he would come to that. First things first - did they know why he was so famous?
Ginger McSporran suggested sarcastically that he was famous for being able to talk and talk and talk without every reaching the point. That he could probably talk the hind leg off a donkey, quite literally. The donkey would get so insane from hearing the endless chatter that it would eat its own hind leg, despite being usually a vegetarian. He said it in a not too bitterly sarcastic way, so Mad Pete wasn't too worried.
No, that wasn't it, he said. Although he would be the first to admit that he liked to talk, he had never caused a donkey to eat its own leg. No, he was famous because he was the best. He was the best chartmaker in the whole of Ablet, and people liked him. Why? Why could it be?
Ralph suggested, recalling his village chartmaker, that perhaps it was because he made charts that people liked to have. He would make sure, even if it meant a little poetic licence on the meaning of the birth date of an individual , that people got charts that they would like to get. He knew that chartmakers did that, he added as an ever so slightly bitter afterthought. He didn't hold a grudge against the chartmaker who had gotten his wrong - more a sort of friendly disparagement.
Mad Pete was hugely offended at this. No indeed! He was not now nor then nor ever had been nor ever would be a chartmaker of that sort! No indeed! He didn't know how Ralph could dare to even suggest such a thing! He was most exclamatory on the subject and went on at great length. Very great length. Ralph wished he'd never said it and Ginger McSporran contemplated setting Twinkle on Mad Pete to get him to go on with the story. But Twinkle was asleep and he couldn't bear to wake the dear little snookums up, so he didn't.
At length, Mad Pete calmed himself down enough to resume his story. No (and here he cast a darkling look at Ralph the Timid, who tried not to meet his eyes for fear of starting him off again) he was not famous for pandering to the desires of the rich and famous and noteworthy. No indeed! In fact, he was famous for quite the opposite. He would always write the truth and he was always ALWAYS accurate. And people liked that. They liked to know that they could trust what Boris the Brilliant would tell them. It was a good living. It was a good life. And then (Mad Pete's voice softened and became melancholic) and then....he threw it all away.
It happened, he said, because he became too curious, too sure of himself. He did too much of the same work and it made him think too much. He thought things like, but everyone I meet is different, yet some of them are born on the same day and the same time - how can this be possible? He began to question if the omnipotent power of the birth dates governing the journey of every persons life was really that omnipotent after all. Perhaps knowing your path set you on your path. Maybe if the year of the snake winter babies didn't know they were meant to be bad, they wouldn't be bad.
He thought about this theory more and more, but how could he test it? He wondered and pondered and pondered and wondered but could never come up with a satisfactory solution. He contemplated asking his wife if they could abandon their young son somewhere without a chart - at this point Ralph drew in his breath sharply at a sudden horrific thought - but he had thought better off it, for two reasons. First, he didn't want his son growing up damaged goods for having had no chart, and second he didn't want his wife to murder him for so much as suggesting such a thing.
And then a magnificient opportunity presented itself. The King and Queen of some province or other of Ablet - he couldn't remember which and had written it down, damn his eyes - arrived at his house with their two baby sons. They had, they said, been off travelling the seas for the last three years, during which time their sons had been born. They had come back as soon as they were able to have charts made for their little boys, and they wanted him to do it.
Mad Pete recalled the day as clearly as if it had been yesterday. It had been the height of winter, and snowing. He had brought them inside - into this very room - and they had sat by the fire which had been glowing warmly. There had been a sofa in here then, and they had sat on that, with their children on their knees, and unwrapped their sons from several layers of protected fur coats so that Boris the Brilliant could make their charts.
Boris the Brilliant had been taken back by what he saw. Two little boys - twins, he was told - sat on their parents laps and looked at him with big curious eyes. One seemed older than the other by a good several months, but no, they were twins, he was told, and here were their birthdates all recording accurately. They had had all the details written down at the time of the birth, but no chart had been made yet. They had wanted the best for their sons, and they had come to Boris the Brilliant because he was the best.
Boris the Brilliant did not disagree. (I was such an arrogant fool then, Mad Pete interjected. Ralph the Timid and Ginger McSporran did not disagree.) All right, he said. I'll do it. Give me the details. They were duly handed over. These were for the older son, aren't they Pumpkin? (Ruffling the hair of the larger of the twins, the Queen handed over a page of scribbled notes) and these were yours, weren't they, Snookums? She said that to the other son, obviously, not to Mad Pete.
Mad Pete had studied the details and had two reactions at exactly the same time. The first was horror. The twins had been born when? In the year of the snake under the red moon? At night? There was no more inauspicious time to be born. What terrible things would these poor children grow up to do?The second was delight. Here, at last, was the opportunity he had been waiting for to test his theory. If only he could persuade these royal parents...
Boris the Brilliant withdrew to think. He pored over books of chartmaking. He looked at the stars. He made calculation after calculation. And he drew up two charts, nearly identical, except one son was born later at night that the other. That, of course, made him much the greater threat to heart and hearth and home. And then he went back into the library to talk to the Royal Family of Wherever It Was.
He had had his most persuasive hat on, said Mad Pete. It was a lovely pink one with bells, he added reminiscently, his eyes going cloudy in a haze of fond memories. Ginger McSporran and Ralph exchanged a look, and Mad Pete, heaving a great sigh, went on with his story.
He had had his most persuasive hat on, and he had told them everything. That their sons were grow up to be villains, and that the younger son (though it be only by less than an hour) would be the worst by far. They knew he would not lie. He did not lie. He was Boris the Brilliant. The queen wept a little. She had known it would be thus. So had the king. They had been so busy travelling they'd forgotten it was the Year of the Snake. But was Boris sure it was the younger son who would be the worst? He looked such a nice child. The older son was already developing a sinister countenance. Had Boris seen the scar on his cheek?
Boris had, but it made no difference. The charts said what they said. There was only one hope, and he wasn't sure if it would work. He had a theory, he said. Would the king and queen like to hear it?
They would.
Boris' theory was essentially this: that a child born to be evil might escape its fate by - forgive his bluntness, your majesties - being left somewhere for some people to happen upon it and raise it as their own. If it was left without a chart, a new chart would be bound to be created for it, and perhaps that chart would have a better influence on the child.
The queen cried more at the idea of abandoning her baby son. The king looked thoughtful. They couldn't abandon BOTH of them, of course, he needed to keep an heir. But it was an idea, certainly. But why couldn't Boris just make a new chart.
Boris had drawn himself and looked the picture of honourability. He did not do things like that. He was Boris the Brilliant. If they wanted a false chart, they could go elsewhere. Otherwise, they should follow his advice. It would save them heartache in the long run.
After a long night of argument, they finally agreed, and all was arranged for the younger son to be abandoned in the mountains. The other twin was taken by the King and Queen back to their castle, whereever it was. Boris the Brilliant had been overjoyed that he would have a chance to test his theory.
Then he had lost track of both of the boys. Then he had thought about what he had done. What if no one had found the young boy in the mountain woods? Or if everyone had refused to raise him? What if he was wrong and the birthdates did matter and he murdered the people who did raise him, or worse?
And THAT was when Boris the Brilliant had retired and become Mad Pete.
Throughout this story, Ralph had been staring at Mad Pete in growing horror. He had wanted to seek his purpose. Had he found it?

(Word Count: 30182)

Chapter Twenty One: In Which We Switch Back to Ralph The Timid

Now, where were we? It may be confusing to have the narrative switch wildly between our two major protagonists in such a way, but it's the only way to maintain immediacy. At this moment at the top of a very tall tower in a very tall castle belonging to Prince Rupert, Lady Ann is calling out in an exclamatory way to answer the knock of Prince Rupert (not that she knows who it is, not being able to see through doors). At the same moment, in the Low Plains, in the Ralph the Timid is sitting in Mad Pete/ Boris' library being bitten repeatedly by Twinkle.

They didn't have a conversation about the philosophy of villains or anything. Twinkle just liked the taste of Ralph and the squealing noise he made when he got bitten on the ankle. Twinkle was a bit mean like that. But there, he was a cat, and cats are a law unto themselves.

Mad Pete/ Boris - no, we were calling him Mad Boris for convenience's sake, weren't we? - Mad Boris for convenience's sake was laughing every time Twinkle bit Ralph, but you can't blame him for that can you? He was mad! (And don't worry, he won't be being called Mad Boris for convenience's sake every time his name is mentioned from now own. It's just not that convenient).

Ginger McSporran was not laughing. "Mad Pete!" he said authoritatively. "Don't let my cat distract you from what you were about to tell us! Even though he is cute, aren't you Twinkly baby pussy wussy?" He patted the cat with a giant black clawed hand. And then he looked pointedly at Mad Pete.

No one can look quite as pointedly at you as a giant cave dwelling beast with massive point horns, and Mad Pete got the point. Mad Pete may have been mad, but he wasn't that mad.

"All right," he said, looking as completely serious as a man dressed in a range of bold primary colours can look. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything."

All eyes were focussed on Mad Pete as he leaned forward to tell his story, even Twinkle's. Ralph the Timid felt that there should be portentous music playing, and maybe that it should be dark and stormy, and there should be flickering firelight to add atmosphere to Mad Pete's words. But then it was the middle of the day, and if there'd been a fire they would all have been sweating buckets, so then again perhaps not.

And so Mad Pete began. "My name is, as I have told you, Boris Petrov Blockoff, and my home is here -" he waved an expressive hand, indicating in one simple yet immeasurably complicated gesture not just the library, but the entire house in all its size and glory, and indeed even Rangville and the Low Plains. Mad Pete could do extremely expressive gestures. "Yes, this my home. I was born here, I was raised here, I was married here, I raised my children here. I shall probably die here. Yes, this is my home. My home."
He stopped and brooded on this thought for a moment. It wasn't clear if it was a depressing thought or a happy one. Either way, his listeners just wanted him to get on with the story. Ginger McSporran cleared his throat loudly with a sound that was reminiscent of nothing so much as a large piece of metal being dragged along a gravel road by a snowplow or similar piece of heavy equipment. Mad Pete started talking again in a hurry.

"Where - where was I?" he stuttered uneasily, like a motorboat bursting back into life after having a temper tantrum and flooding the engine with fuel. "Oh yes - at home! Well, yes, this is my home. You see I am, or at least I was, a chartmaker. I was a great chart maker. One of the - no, I shall not decieve you with false modesty, I was THE best."
He paused and looked at them almost archly, as if waiting for applause or congratulations.

None was forthcoming. In fact both Ginger McSporran and Ralph the Timid were looking at him as if he was completely mad.
Mad Pete decided not to continue waiting for applause, and went on. "I was so good, so outstanding excellent and accurate with my charts that my fame spread beyond Rangville. People would come from all over the Low Plains to have me make a chart for their babies - and not just the Low Plains! From the Mountains, to the Seashore, to the Wide Flat Plains - people would come from all over Ablet, just to see me. And not just the ordinary folk, oh no. Not just your common or garden tailors or woodcutters or tavern owners or millers, though of course they came in droves." Mad Pete looked as if he was about to study his fingernails or strike a pose in awe of his own popularity and skill, but with one eye on Ginger McSporran (who was not in fact fuming in rage, but certainly looked as if he was) decided that haste was the better part of valour, and continued his story. "I had woodsman and goodwives and fishermen coming out my ears," he said,"figuratively speaking of course. But it wasn't just the ordinary folk. As my fame spread the wealthier my clients became. I had rich merchants and knights, ladies and gentlemen, kings and queens...I even" here his voice become hushed and pregnant with the weight of the words he was about to say "got the chartmakers for kings and queens! And the soothsayers!" he sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest and looked at Ginger McSporran and Ralph the Timid smugly, as if to say 'so what do you think of that, you two? Think Mad Pete is of no account? Think again!'

It seemed to have little effect on his listeners. They looked a little as if they didn't believe him. They waited. Mad Pete waited. No one said anything.
"Fine!" said Mad Pete, getting up and stomping over to a bookshelf. He pulled out a large folio bound in nice shiny red leather and embossed with gold, stomped back and passed it to Ralph the Timid. "See for yourselves if you don't believe me!"

Ginger leaned over to see as Ralph slowly turned the pages of the folio. The first page simply said proudly "Boris Petrov Blockoff: Memories" in an elaborate black font. Following it were dozens of paintings some large, some minature, watercolour after watercolour, showing a man who was recognisably the man who had passed them the folio and various personages who at least appeared to be illustrious, to judge by the array of tiaras, crowns, sceptres, gold jewellery and fancy clothing. The captions were all in much the same vein - "Myself with King Michael and Queen Jacqueline of Holstein", "Myself with Lord Gibbon de Chance, Lord High Chartmarker to the House of Khards" and so on. Page after page of them! Unless this was a particularly elaborate prop with which to further his deception, Mad Pete was telling the truth. Because Ginger McSporran liked an easy life, and Ralph the Timid liked a good story, they chose to believe him rather than pursue the incredibly elaborate deception with no obvious point to it train of thought.

"All right," said Ralph the Timid, sounding particularly authoritative. "So you were a chartmaker. What's that got to do with this parcel?"

"Ah!" said Mad Pete in his most exclamatory and flamboyant manner. "That's where the story really gets interesting. But you have to know all the background first."

And so Mad Pete began his tale in earnest. And Ralph the Timid and Ginger McSporran, the black beast of the caves, and Twinkle, ferocious attack cat of the black beast of the caves, listened as the tale spun around them. It was an amazing story.

(Word Count: 28121)

Chapter Twenty: In Which We Examine the Various Natures of Villainy.

It would be reasonable to expect at this moment that you would be able to guess what this chapter was going to be about. Even looking at the chapter heading, one would suppose that in this chapter, there would be discourse on the nature of villainy as it related to Mad Pete or Boris Blockoff or whatever his name was now, and his lying to people. And so it may. You might think, however, that "In Which We Examine the Various Natures of Villainy" would mean that on the way through this chapter, we would pick up where the last one left off. That is to say, Mad Boris Petrov Blockoff would explain why exactly he was wandering around in the mountain forests with an oversized songbird telling people he was a mad man and asking them to retrieve mysterious packages for him which weren't actually for him, but then turned out to be actually for him.
You might even think that we would actually, finally, at last discover what was actually in the package. Was it a jewel of preciousness beyond imagination? Was it a letter from an old friend? Was it a -by now very stale - sandwich? We might even get to know how the package got there, and what it was doing there. Did Mad Pete put it there? Was it just visiting some friends? Or was it checking out the glowworms? Or was it just sitting there, as packages so often do? There are so many questions that could be answered in this chapter. But they won't be.
Another reasonable hypothesis is, since Ralph the Timid, Ginger McSporran, Twinkle and Mad Pete are sitting in a library, that a sudden scholarly fever might seize them. They might find themselves suddenly drawn into a mighty argument over when villainy could be construed as evil, and when it might actually be somewhat less villainous that first supposed. They could have an argument that goes something like this:
Mad Pete could say something like "Well, it wasn't that villainous of me to decieve you. I had my reasons."
And then Ginger McSporran could reply "Nonsense, there is no excuse! As the Great Master of Wisdom Oliver Rackham Spicer always said, there is no such thing as a lessening of villainy just because it is a means to an end."
And then Ralph the Timid, still rubbing his ankle, could chip in with "or as the soothsayer in my village is so fond of quoting 'some are born evil, some become evil, and some have evillness thrust upon them.'"
And then Mad Pete and Ginger McSporran could look at him strangely because he wasn't making enough sense for them, and then Twinkle could bite him again.
And then Mad Pete could use Twinkle as example of villainy that wasn't intentional, and then Ginger could cuddle Twinkle and order Ralph and Mad Pete to stop being so mean to his cat.
And then the discussion could continue apace. It would be quite reasonable to assume that in a chapter discussing the nature of villainy there would be a conversation such as this. However, one would assume wrongly. Excluding the given example, of course, but since it was only an example it does not count.
No, in this chapter we shall being going back to Lady Ann of Erd, imprisoned in her room at the top of a very tall tower in a very tall castle belonging to Prince Rupert of Xanadu. For her situation is very useful to illustrate the degrees and nature of villains.
Lady Ann, locked into a room which was at once pleasantly spacious and mind crampingly small and claustrophobic making (at least once one had been locked inside it with nothing to do for more than a few hours, might consider that Prince Rupert was one of the most vile dastardly individuals to walk the earth - or crawl on his belly across the great land of Ablet, if she was at the moment feeling particularly angry and/ or poetic.
However, a man trapped in an iron cage which had bits of glass or other sharp things to poke into him whenever he moved and fed only once a week, instead of several times a day, as Lady Ann was, would have considered Prince Rupert of Xanadu a relatively beneficient captor. Providing, of course, that Prince Rupert was equally fondly disposed to said man as he was to Lady Ann, which seems unlikely.
So the point we have here as that villainy is relative. Torture by boredom is perhaps less villainous than torture by pain or random acts of cruelty, though this is of course subjective. Well, no, it's not really all that subjective, but without having suffered through physical torture Lady Ann had no benchmark of comparision, so we can leave with the conclusion that although Prince Rupert might not be a baby eating blood letting ogre of a villain, he was still being rather significantly less than gentlemanly to her.
There is also the nature of villainy to look at. The omnipotent law which governs people's purposes in life -at least in Ablet - no doubt contributes to this. There are the accidental-on-purpose villains, for example parents who expose their babies on the hillside a la Oedipus in order to avoid a child who, due to being born on a moonless night in winter in the year of the snake, would be destined to grow up and murder lots of people, or similar. If the child survives (again a la Oedipus), are they still villanous for having done so?
There are those who do bad things for simple enjoyment - such as the child who was born on a moonless night in winter in the year of the snake.
And there are those who do bad things because they mistakenly think they are coming across as dashing and heroic in doing so, such as Prince Rupert.
Prince Rupert, as bad guys went, was not terrifically bad. He did not abuse his servants, or kick his animals, and everyone and everything in his castle was well fed with a nice place to sleep. He gave all his old retainers pensions when they retired after years of faithful service, and he had a big estate somewhere in the Low Plains where he sent all his horses once they were past their prime. He liked to think of them there, frolicking merrily in the long lush grass on the rolling meadows. He was not to know of his estate managers perfidious contract with the local butcher (and there again we have another kind of villainy! It's everywhere).
Prince Rupert had one particular failing though, and that was that he had read too many stories. He was good at telling them, and loved to hear them. And the more he heard, the more he realised that the hero was always a wet wimp, a goody two shoes, a paragon of virtues too boring for words. This opinion, coupled with the truth the mirror told him - that there was no way his countenance was going to let him be a good guy, he seemed to have been born with a sinister scar and a permanent five o clock shadow - made up his mind for him. He had had some hesitations, but then he remembered his birthdate. Yes, it all made sense. He would be a bad guy, and then he not only induldge his passion for his favourite colour - black, but he would also be able to grow his hair long and flick it about dashingly, which always sounded fun. And best of all, he would be able to throw his head back and laugh the hearty laugh of a bad guy. "Muw ahha ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha! Ah ah ah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!"
And then, if he grew to be a really good bad guy (if you'll pardon the expression) some thunder would roll at that point, and the sky would grow dark, and lightning would flash, and maybe there would be bats or perhaps a wolf howling.
Prince Rupert was a rather naive villain. But anything he did he did properly, and whenever he saw something he wanted -like, say, Lady Ann to be his wife - he did everything in his power to get it. First by being dastardly abductive, and then by being dastardly charming. As he was now - he was at this very moment mounting the stairs to Lady Ann's tower room (which she may have called a tower prison, but he liked to think of as my lady's chamber) in order to visit her in person.
On he went up the stairs, up and up and up and up and up. He was fitter than Lady Ann had been, and without her to slow him down, he went very quickly. Up, up, up, up, up, around and around and around the spiral staircase he went. He was a very athletic villain. One has to be when one imprisons one's lady friends up so high. He was excited about the visit though. He wanted to see what she had thought of his letters and the poem! Surely he must be winning her over by now. Up and up and up and up and up and up and up he went, until at last, he was there. He paused a moment to catch his breath before knocking on the door. Even the worst of bad guys would not present himself out of breath. It puts him at such a disadvantage.
Normal breathing pattern regained, he knocked.
"Who is it?" said Lady Ann in an exclamatory way. She was not expecting him.

(Word Count: 26784)

Chapter Nineteen: In which Ralph the Timid is Extremely Surprised.

Ralph the Timid stared at the man who had opened the door. He gaped. He googled. He gawped. His mouth hung open like a door that was nearly off its hinges. His eyes boggled like two big blue things that boggle. He was so surprised he could not think of a time he had been more surprised in his life, ever. Not even the time when he had been caving with his elder foster brother Robert back when they were children, and Robert had suddenly disappeared in front of him only to pop up behind him seemingly miraculously and push him into a dark, cold pond deep within the cave, and that had been pretty surprising. Robert was born in the year of the snail, after all, and was not usually given to playing practical jokes. Ralph had been so surprised then he had actually yelled out in surprise.
This time he was so surprised he actually couldn't speak. He was so lost for words that if he'd been in a library he wouldn't have been able to find any.
"Well then, young Ralph," said the voice of the man who had opened the door to them. "What's the problem there? Twinkle got your tongue? Bad cat that one!"
Ralph sputtered. He spluttered. He struggled for breath.
Ginger McSporran said, in his deep, heavy, black beast of the cave voice. "Mad Pete?"
Mad Pete nodded delightedly with such fervor that for a man with his head less firmly attached attempting such a feat would have suddenly found himself several inches shorter. Mad Pete's head was sewn on pretty firmly however (even if perhaps there was a screw or two loose in the upper workings) and it stayed firmly where it should have been. "Yes, it is I! Boris Petrov Blockoff, known to my friends and family alike as Mad Pete, or that Crazy Old Bastard, if they're feeling a bit ratty. Won't you come in?"
"But- " said Ralph the Timid. "But - but - but -"
"You sound like a chicken." said Boris Petrov "Mad Pete" Blockoff. "Bring yourselves in and we'll have a nice cup of tea and I'll explain everything. And you can give me my parcel!"
Ginger McSporran (complete with sack, featuring Twinkle) and Ralph came slowly into the house. Ralph was still trying to fathom the strange behaviour of Mad Pete. Why had he not simply said, days ago, that he was Boris Blockoff?
Mad Pete ushered them through a long, spacious hall way to a big library at the back of the house. Through the windows at the rear of the room Ralph the Timid could see an elaborate garden and a large stump upon which an enormous shape rested, which Ralph first took to be some weird sculpture of indescribable oddness, but then realised was in fact Ethel with her head tucked under her wing.
There was in fact nothing odd or mad at all about Boris "Mad Pete" Blockoff's library. It had lots and lots and lots of books, on shelves which completely lined the room and reached from floor to ceiling. They all seemed to be bound in extremely fine leather with the titles embossed in gold, and they all seemed to have titles like "The Coinesseurs Guide to Getting the Best Out of One's Life: How to Attract Wild Birds At A Single Whistle" and "The Eccentric Millionaire Chartmakers Guide To Making the Most of One's Money By Supporting Honest Young Adventurers." Ralph wondered briefly at how specific the book titles were. Clearly the authors were singularly lacking in imagination. Not like the stories his foster parents had told him and his foster siblings while they were young. They were called things like "Why the Crow Is Black" and "How the Sky became Blue", and actually, now that he thought about it, they weren't that original either. At least they were shorter.
Boris Blockoff, erstwhile known as Mad Pete, indicated some armchairs arranged by the fireplace. There was no fire in the grate, but then the weather was nice and warm, so any fire would have been unnecessary, not to say unwelcome. Ralph the Timid sat, and found the chair even more comfortable than that which he had sat in at the cave of Ginger McSporran. It was so soft it was like sitting on a giant marshmallow which had been heated over the fire and gone all melty.
Ginger McSporran was too big for the chairs, and chose instead to sit on the hearth rug, with his back against the fireplace. So in fact it was a very good thing that the fire wasn't lit.
Boris "Mad Pete" Blockoff looked pointedly at the sack lying on the floor beside the black beast of the cave and wriggling angrily. "You can let the cat out of the bag now, you know."
Ginger McSporran grinned his creepy luminous grin. "You've been waiting to say that for days now, haven't you?" he said.
Mad Pete shrugged his shoulders wryly and admitted it. "It was impossible to resist." he said.
Ralph the Timid had by this time regained his power of speech. "So it was you all along!" he said in an uncharacteristically exclamatory way. Ralph was not given to be exclamatory, he was more placid by nature. Maybe he was born in the year of the cow, he thought randomly at that moment. Cows were said to be placid, except in the presence of red flags. Didn't the people down in the Southern Coastlands play some sort of sport where they waved red flags at the cows and then ran away and tried to outrun them? It didn't sound like a very fun sport. More sort of foolhardy. Ralph thought he might like to try it some time.Then he shook his head and returned to the point and paid attention to what was happening in front of him.
Mad Pete - no, it was Boris Blockoff now, wasn't it - was saying "Yes, it was me all along."
Well, that much was evident, unless - "You didn't just break in here and tell us you're Boris Blockoff, did you?" said Ralph, a suspicious thought striking him. It struck him metaphorically, please note. It did not creep in, looking shiftily from side to side and then bop him one with a giant spiked club. That's not how suspicious thoughts roll.
Mad Boris, which we will call him now for convenience if not accuracy's sake, laughed. "No, no. I am actually Boris Blockoff. I could prove it to you, if you like, but it would take so much time and energy that it would be easier if you just believed me straight off."
Ralph the Timid was by nature a trusting person and so didn't even need to think about this. He acquiesed immediately. "All right." he said.
Ginger McSporran just laughed and let the cat out of the bag. Twinkle yawned, stretched, walked over to Ralph and bit him on the leg, rubbed around Mad Boris' ankles and purred, then returned to sit beside Ginger McSporran and began to wash himself.
Ralph the Timid shot him a dirty look. Bloody cat! He thought angrily. But he said nothing of this aloud, because even if you are friends with someone who looks as huge and godlike and omnipotent and menacing as Ginger McSporran, the black beast of the caves, you still probably don't want to abuse their cat. They are pretty scary looking, after all.
Instead he turned all his attention to Mad Boris and said "Well, why didn't you tell us then? We had the parcel. We could have given it to you. I don't take much convincing. Why didn't you tell Ginger here? You could have told him years ago and got your parcel back a long time ago. And what IS that parcel? How did it get there? Are you going to open it?"
Mad Boris laughed. "Ha ha ha! That's a lot of questions you have there, young Ralph the Timid! Where should I start? Which one should I answer first?"
Ginger McSporran laughed, a great lugubrious rumble that was probably a laugh, at least. It could have been a nearby rockfall, but they weren't in cave so that was admittedly unlikely. "Why don't you start at the beginning, Boris Petrov Blockoff or Mad Pete or whatever your name is?"
And so Mad Boris began to tell them his story.

(Word Count: 25142)

Chapter Eighteen: In Which Ralph the Timid meets Boris.

Ralph the Timid walked down the mountain, whistling merrily. He liked to whistle merrily while he walked. It made the day seem more cheerful and his walk more purposeful. And Ralph liked to do anything that made him seem more purposeful. He wished his parents had left him a chart when they had so heartlessly abandoned him in the mountains. He did not allow it to weigh his spirits down however. He was on his way! And now he had friends to travel with as well.

For Ginger McSporran - though maybe not Twinkle - was an excellent travelling companion. He joined in the whistling. He did not race ahead or lag behind, and sometimes flew up above the trees with a massive flap of his mighty wings to see what progress was being made. On these occasions Ralph had to hold the sack containing Twinkle, who was not such a good traveller. The cat also seemed to know who was holding the sack and deployed claws appropriately. Ralph was covered in scratches, but he didn't complain. Ralph always made the best of things.

He was now making the best of the fact that they hadn't been able to rid themselves of Mad Pete and Ethel. Well, at least they hadn't been able to rid themselves of Mad Pete. Ethel kept flying ahead, perching on a suitably doughty bough and waiting for them, so she was barely with the party for more than a few moments at a time. But Mad Pete was there constantly.Ralph tried to whistle a little more loudly and tunefully and merrily to cover his irritation. However good a travelling companion the black beast of the caves was, Mad Pete was quite the opposite.

He got blisters and complained loudly about how sore his feet were. He got stones in his shoes and had to stop to take them off, and would whine incessantly if Ralph and Ginger McSporran refused to stop for him. The only slightly redeeming factor was that he had, after several hours, finally stopped asking for his package. A small child in the back of a carriage could ask repeatedly if they were there yet ad infinitium and ad nauseum; Mad Pete could ask for his parcel for twice as long and in an infinitely more annoying voice.

But at last it seemed he had given up and was now trying to sing along to the whistling in a peculiarly raspy tenor voice. Unfortunately he did not know the song so he was singing more a tuneless "Tum te tum tum tum te te tum" that any particular song. Still, it was better than fruitlessly arguing about the parcel.

The three travellers plus one cat in a bag continued on down the mountain. Ethel swooped ahead of them through the trees.

Time passed, and eventually they reached a road, running down the mountain from the villages above, probably including the one from which Ralph had departed only recently. He wondered to himself why he had not taken the road to begin with, but then thought that if he had, he would not have met Mad Pete (not such a great loss) or Ginger McSporran (which would be a shame) and he wouldn't be having such an interesting adventure.Ralph the Timid was not forgetting to seek his purpose, but he was somewhat distracted from it.

The road made the going easier, and the company picked up its pace. Ethel stuck closer to the foot travellers now, as she seemed to feel an Unexpectedly Large Warbler in company would attract less attention that an Unexpectedly Large Warbler travelling alone along a road in the middle of nowhere, which theory may or may not have been justified but had little opportunity to be tested as they did not meet anyone all that day.

Nor the next day. Nor the day after that, or the day after that. At length, however, they passed out of the mountains into the foothills, and began to see signs of habitation. Here a farmhouse, there a barn, some cows in a field, a dairymaid. This last they stopped to talk to, and she told them they were near Foothillsborough, the biggest town in the foothills. All they needed to do was stay on this road.

As they none of them had no desire to go plunging off across farmers' fields getting shot at for trespassing (except maybe Mad Pete, but then he was mad, so no one was going to listen to him) they followed the advice of the dairymaid and stayed on the road. Soon they were passing more and more houses and people. The houses just sat there, but the people tended to stare a bit and say "Would you look at that?" in an exclamatory way to their friends, if they were with some, or to themselves, if they weren't. Ralph the Timid felt quite self conscious and kept trying to hide his eyes from the strangers. Why were they staring at him? What was there to look at? Did he have something on his face? Maybe some dirt in an embarrassing place on his trousers from when he fell over the other day?
It didn't occur to him that perhaps a young man travelling with a giant cave dwelling winged black beast, a middle aged motely dressed self professed and very evidently mad man, a sack that periodically meowed or snarled and a giant rare bird the size of a very big sheep was probably the least interesting of them all. No one was looking at him at all.
In Foothillsborough they managed, with some difficulty, to find rooms at an inn for the night. One might imagine at this point that it was Ginger McSporran that made finding the rooms so difficult, being so scary looking and all. But in fact one would find that having a black beast from the caves with you when looking for rooms was actually quite helpful, as no one wanted to make him made. No, the problem was quite different. A festival was going on in Foothillsborough to celebrate the anniversary of the founding of Foothillsborough five hundred years earlier.
Ralph the Timid privately had some doubts about whether the town was in fact five hundred years old as most of it looked, to his eye at least, quite modern. But there, maybe it had all burned to the ground about one hundred years ago, and they had had to be rebuild. He shouldn't be so sceptical. At any rate, a lot of people thought it had been founded then, and were celebrating it with a lot of noise and dancing and alchoholic beverages. Everyone (except for the dairymaid) from the outlying farms and nearby towns had come to join the party, and it was this that made finding accomodation such a tricky business.
Nevertheless - and probably thanks to the menacing aspect of Ginger McSporran - they finally managed to find two rooms in an inn that was not quite as dirty as the one in which Lady Ann had been tied to the bar. It was still very dirty, however, but the travellers were so relieved to have found somewhere to sleep they would've slept in a stable.
Ralph the Timid shared with Ginger McSporran, Twinkle and the parcel while Mad Pete roomed with Ethel. If it had not been for his odd dreams about Mad Pete, Ralph the Timid would almost have preferred to share a room with him. Ginger McSporran snored, although not loudly, but it wasn't that which made Ralph the Timid a little anxious. In general he liked cats, but Twinkle was an exception.
The cat was out to get him, he was sure, and in an inn with Ethel doing her Unexpectedly Large Warbling bit in a completely different room, Twinkle would have no reservations about emerging from his sack to do dastardly deeds from which Ralph the Timid would, no doubt, come off second best. It was a hard life, thought Ralph, trying to find your purpose.
His fears proved correct over night, having woken up several times to find claws digging into his chest and the strangely jubliant face of Twinkle looking into his. The cat seemed to have that omnipotent power of all animals to go for the weak or young, or just the one that doesn't like them.
Fortunately it was only for one night and the next day, having paid their bill, the travellers made their way through the party goers in the town with Twinkle securely back in his bag. It struck Ralph that maybe having been forced to fend for himself while Ginger McSporran went travelling may have been preferable for Twinkle than being carried around in a sack for days on end. But he didn't seem to mind, as long as his master was carrying him. He only objected when handed over to Ralph.
On the far side of Foothillsborough they managed to get directions to Rangville, which was apparently only a day and a half's journey from there. Ralph hoped that Boris Blockoff would actually be home, in that case. He could be here, celebrating the five hundredth anniversary of Foothillsborough. If he was, though, they would never find him. Much easier to go to Rangville on the Low Plains and wait.
And so they did.
As it turned out, he was indeed at the Foothillsborough festival, according to the lone servant who had stayed behind. And so they waited. They waited outside his house, an elaborate three-storeyed affair with a very pointy roof.
They waited and waited. After three days (during which time they had found somewhere better to sleep than the doorstep, patronising a local hostelry instead) when Ralph the Timid and Ginger McSporran (Mad Pete and Ethel having gone wandering) presented themselves on the doorstep, the door opened to them.
"Please come in - I hear you've been waiting for me." said a voice. It was Boris Blockoff at last.

(Word Count: 23732)

Chapter Seventeen: In Which Lady Ann gets rather bored.

Lady Antoinetta Bernadetta Clarissa Drusilla Eleanora Georgetta Henrietta Isabella Juanita Katherina Lolita Marguerita Nerissa Octavia Petunia Quintessa Roberta Suzetta Tabitha Ursula Venitia Wilhelmina Xenia Zelda of Erd sat at the window of her tower room and sighed. She was bored. She was so bored, in fact, that she was actually sitting at this window. She didn't like sitting at the window, because it was so far up it made her giddy. It also made her think that maybe the tower was swaying in the wind, or about to fall down. But it was the only place to look out from and see what was happening, and there was nothing else to do in the tower room.

Lady Ann had been in the tower room for three days now, and she had completely exhausted her resources of thinking of things to do. She was clean from head to toe now, having had the longest bath of her life and scrubbed hard with a scrubbing brush for a very long time. Her hair was clean and sensibly braided to keep it out of the way. She was dressed in a gown provided to her by Prince Rupert - blue like her own, and made of a brocade with an intricate silvery pattern. She had to admit Prince Rupert was quite a good host, apart from the fact that she was locked by herself in the top of the tallest tower until she agreed to marry him.

He had provided everything of the best to her. Her gown was lovely and of highest quality - although she had also mended her own as best she could, just for something to do. The bath he had provided was also very ornate, and she pitied the poor servants who had to bring her hot water. Perhaps not the most thoughtful master then, no matter how good he was to his guests or prisoners. The food he gave her was similar good, and in plentiful supply. No thought of starving her into submission.

No, all he did was send her pictures of kittens and bad love letters, and let her to herself. Was he hoping to bore her into giving into his demands? Lady Ann was not sure, but it did seem a reasonably good choice of strategy. No blood, no deep resentment from having been mistreated, no scary protuding bones from having been starved...just so bored you'd agree to anything, just for something to do.

She sighed, and looked around the room for something to occupy her attention. There was the bed, with its feather mattress freshly plumped and turned, its covering tidily straightened. Everything was perfect there. Nothing to do. Her dress, neatly hanging from a hook in the corner. The sleeve had been irrepairable without the original sleeve which, so far as Lady Ann knew, was still hooked in the window she had climbed out of. What an idiot she had been! Climbing out that window was not an adventure! Climbing out this window would be, she thought, glancing at it and shuddering. It would not be an adventure she would be trying in a hurry though. Or ever.

Her gaze continued around the room. She had counted all the beams - There were five. She had counted all the pieces of wood that made up the door - seven. She had counted each of the fifty four flagstones on the floor - three times, just to make sure. She could not count the bricks that made up her walls because they were coated in something to make the walls smooth, but she was seriously considering chipping at it with her fingers. There was just nothing to do.

She got up from her seat by the window to do what she considered to be her daily pacing. Back and forwards across the room one hundred times she went. She counted in every language she knew, and she walked then ran then skipped, then hopped, then even danced across the room.
And yet, when she returned to the window to look out on the world, it seemed as if nothing had changed. The sun had not moved. The shadows had not changed length. She sighed heavily again and put her head on the wide windowsill. The stone was cool and smooth, but not very interesting. She lifted her head again. There must be something to do.

How could she get out of here? Planning an escape might pass the time. She still had her bottle from the very dirty inn. She could crack the servant who brought her food every meal time over the head with it and escape. Lady Ann wrinkled her nose. No, if she was going to crack anyone on the head with that bottle it would be Prince Rupert. He was the one who was keeping her here, after all.

She could bribe the servant, she supposed, but since she didn't actually have any money on her at the moment, that might be difficult. She rejected that idea as well.

If only she could fly - well, she couldn't, so that was no good. If only a pig would fly past. She knew they did sometimes, because she was born in the year of the flying pig, and there couldn't very well be a year of the flying pig if flying pigs didn't exist, but they must be extremely rare, because she had never seen one and she'd seen all kinds of rare animals. Princes and Kings and Queens tended to collect all sorts of odd menageries, and she'd seen everything from the Unusually Large Warbler of the mountains to the Lesser Spotted Horned Sea Monster of the Far Islands, but no flying pigs. Well, she wasn't going to reasonably be able to rely on one of them to save her either.

How long would it take her to grow her hair long enough to reach the ground? Then she could hack it off and climb down it. But how would she know it was long enough? What if she'd cut it off and climbed down only to find she was still several hundred metres above the ground? Besides, it would take forever.

Still turning these thoughts over in her mind, she gazed out the window. One thing she must admit, she thought, this tower has a marvellous view. She looked down at the castle, with its forest of towers. She looked through the clouds that floated past her tower down into the courtyard of the castle, where scuttling people looked like busy ants.

She leaned as far out of the window as she dared to see the hillside behind her. It looked green and lush, and altogether strangely incongruous with the grey and looming castle in which she was being kept prisoner. It was the sort of castle which would look best atop a gigantic cliff, with a zigzagging path with sheer drops on either side leading up to it and maybe a fragile bridge or two on the way. It would always be night there, she thought, a stormy night! She giggled at this, taking refuge in any sort of amusement she could muster.

She could see far off into the distance that the land met the sky in a blue haze. She might be able to see the sea, but she wasn't sure. It was a long way off if she could. It was all too hazy. She wished she had paid more attention in geography lessons. Then she might be able to tell where she was. As it was, she supposed she was in Xanadu, since Prince Rupert was the prince of Xanadu (at least, loosely, in so much as anyone was Prince of anywhere these days), but she had no idea where Xanadu was in relation to the summer palace of the House of Erd. Why had she not listened more closely?

Another sigh. Maybe she could sleep. No, she already slept too much. There had to be something else she could do. Her eyes strayed to the table, which was stacked with papers. She had had a letter -together with a picture of a kitten - delivered to her with every meal, all from Prince Rupert. She had so far only read the first of these, and put it back down very quickly. She wasn't sure whether to be amused or revolted by them. They all appeared to be love letters.
She had looked at the pictures of kittens though. She wasn't sure why Prince Rupert was sending her them, but they were cute and distracted her from her boredom for at least a few moments. She'd organized them into a line going from her favourite (closest to the door) to her least favourite (closest to the window). Her favourite was the one with the little fluffy grey kitten with white sock biting a great big red ball of wool. Her least favourite was the one of the black kitten looking straight at the artist. It was cute and all, but not very interesting. Lady Ann was a very discerning judge of kitten art.

With nothing better to do, Lady Ann moved to the table to read the next of the letters. She opened it, and noted with amusement that it read exactly the same as the one she had read early.
"Dearest Lady Lady Antoinetta Bernadetta Clarissa Drusilla Eleanora Georgetta Henrietta Isabella Juanita Katherina Lolita Marguerita Nerissa Octavia Petunia Quintessa Roberta Suzetta Tabitha Ursula Venitia Wilhelmina Xenia Zelda of Erd,
It is I, your humble servant Prince Rupert of Xanadu who writes in pursuit of that most dearest object - your hand and your heart. Those most dearest objects. I beg you will forgive my deed in abducting you thus and soften your feelings towards me! Be mine! I have written you this most touching and charming poem in the hopes that soon your feelings towards me will turn to love."
Then, in beautiful cursive script, the following poem was inscribed.
"Antoinetta, amazing and lovely,
Bernadetta, beautiful and lovely,
Clarissa, charming and lovely,
Drusilla, darling and lovely,
Eleanora, elegant and lovely,
Georgetta, gorgeous and lovely,
Henrietta, handsome and lovely,
Isabella , incandescent and lovely,
Juanita, jolly and lovely,
Katherina, k(a scribble) and lovely,
Lolita, lovely and lovely,
Marguerita, magnificent and lovely,
Nerissa, noble and lovely,
Octavia, omnipotent and lovely,
Petunia, perfect and lovely,
Quintessa, quintessential and lovely,
Roberta, romantic and lovely,
Suzetta, smashing and lovely,
Tabitha, touching and lovely,
Ursula, unbeatable and lovely,
Venitia, victorious and lovely,
Wilhelmina, wonderful and lovely,
Xenia, xtra gorgeous and lovely,
Zelda, zesty and lovely, of Erd, be mine!"
This poem made her think several things, some quite exclamatory. Firstly, that Prince Rupert was rubbish at writing poetry, and also that he had not been able to think of something that started with K to call her, which was quite correct. Lady Ann was not called Lady Ann the Astute, but it would have been quite apt at this moment.
It also made her think that Prince Rupert did not know what omnipotent meant, and further that she really needed to escape from this tower. She checked through the rest of the letters. They were all the same. She was sure now that he intended to bore her into submission. He certainly wasn't going to win her over with this poetry.
She began idly folding one of the letters into a dart, and flew it around the room. Maybe if she made one into a really big dart she could get on it and fly away. Or she could make a bedsheet into a parachute....If you want to die, Lady Ann said to herself, stopping that train of thought before it left the station.
But she could do something with the darts, she thought. If she could get some ink from Prince Rupert, she could make a dart that sailed out beyond the castle walls, and some one somewhere would be sure to find it and then surely some one would come and save her. She held up no expectation that her family would come for her. They probably hadn't even noticed she was gone. They were a bit like that.
And so she started making darts, folding the heavy paper this way and that to try and get a dart that would fly far enough to get her message to someone who wouldn't take it straight back to Prince Rupert. She couldn't practise sending them far, as she didn't want to fly them out the window and have them plummet straight down into the courtyard. She didn't want Prince Rupert finding out her plan and putting some dastardly stop to it. All he'd have to do was stop sending her letters and not let her have any ink.
So she threw them across her room, standing on her bed and throwing them at the opposite wall to get maximum flying distance. She tested effectiveness from how crumpled they were when they hit the opposite wall - surely the more crumpled ones would have being flying faster and might therefore be expected to go further before they fell out of the sky? She hoped so at any rate.
This activity occupied her for quite some time, and she didn't notice that time was not passing quite as slowly as before, until suddenly it was lunchtime and there was a servant at the door.
Lady Ann had to move swiftly to cover up the evidence of the dart making before the servant had lifted the heavy bar that kept the door closed and come in. She stood in the corner with all the darts beneath her heavy skirts and nodded coolly at the man who brought in her tray and removed her breakfast dishes.
"Hot chicken and salad today miss!" he said with what Lady Ann considered completely unwarranted cheerfulness. It had been hot chicken and salad for lunch every day so far.
She nodded coolly at him again. She quite prided herself on her ability to nod coolly, and every time she did it the Lady Ann in her head jumped up and down excitedly. It made her want to laugh, which would quite ruin the effect, and she had to hold her breath until she heard the man lock the door and go off down the stairs. By this stage she was nearly purple and had to hold the wall while she laughed heartily.
Then she considered that maybe they were drugging her food. She was laughing when nothing really was funny. Was she going mad? she was sure people in stories went mad when they were trapped with nothing to do. It could easily happen.
Still chuckling slightly she sat down at the table to eat her meal. She lifted the lid. Yes, it was indeed hot chicken and salad. And there was her letter. She opened it. It was exactly the same as the others. Did the man have no originality. She scanned the poem and looked at the 'K' line. No, he hadn't been able to think of anything. She wondered if he would think of anything, or if she would have either given in or thrown herself out the window in pure boredom by then.
Even with a plan, Lady Ann wasn't terribly hopeful. And she still had to get ink.

(Word Count: 22060)