In the Temple of November the abandoned prisoners had come up with a plan. They were fishing with the blanket.

"We need something heavy. If we could just get some weight onto the end we might do it," Peter said.

By straining his metal leash as far as it would permit he could get within a few feet of Wilkinson where the sword had been propped up against the wall. He threw the end of the blanket out once again, keeping a firm grip on one corner and seeking to cover the weapon. Already he had succeeded in getting it to clatter onto the floor but it remained agonisingly out of reach of his outstretched fingers. Each time he dragged the blanket back over the sword he was hoping to tangle the fabric with the scabbard and pull it a little closer. But it was a very frustrating business. He'd been trying for fifteen minutes and mostly the blanket just slipped over the sword and left it unmoved. Very occasionally the rough fabric snagged briefly on a loop of leather and dragged the weapon a pitiful few millimetres closer but it was only just enough to keep him trying and not enough to promise success in the short term.

Come on Cerylia, Peter thought. Try and stick with the plot.

He was starting to despair himself and he was finding Cerylia's attitude increasingly distressing. At no time in his sojourn in the Autumn Country had he ever seen her so remote and so disinterested in her fate and in his own. Frankly, he hated it. And it wasn't just for practical reasons. Peter found that he had come to depend upon Cerylia's good humour in ways he was hard put to explain. Despite all the trials and tribulations of the chase, Cerylia had retained a hopeful buoyancy which lifted his own spirits. Until now. She was naturally good humoured and her smile and laughter made him smile as well. When she stopped smiling he was almost as bereft as her. Of course she had good reasons not to smile and he was well aware of them. But it didn’t help.

Peter wanted desperately to escape from the Proton King's Agents. But, he realised, he also wanted to make Cerylia smile again and just as desperately. If he were really honest with himself that was the main thing he wanted to do with his life. It might seem pathetic, but it was true and there it was.

Whilst he was being  really honest, there was more to it than that. Peter knew that in the right circumstances he could make Cerylia laugh. But it wasn't enough. Many men could make Cerylia laugh. Count Arcturus and A'lekim could make Cerylia laugh just as much as he could, and more so. So why did he hate this when they were only doing what he wanted to do? Because he was selfish. It wasn't just that he wanted to make Cerylia laugh, it was that he wasted to make her laugh in a special way. He wanted her to love him.

It was one thing to fall in love with someone but it was quite another thing for them to fall in love with you. Quite another thing. Peter thought that Cerylia liked him but he knew she didn't love him. Of course not. Why should she? He wasn't a Realm Runner or a glamorous musician, or a Count of the Realm. He wasn't anything except a humble computer programmer in a Realm that knew nothing of computer programmers. He didn’t deserve her love but he was becoming painfully aware that deserving and wanting are also two very different things…

Peter knew he had no chance. He had almost become accustomed to the weird realities of the Autumn Country with its strange Laws Of Form. But there were some things which still seemed as impossible as they had ever been - as outrageous as climbing Mt. Everest or walking on the moon - one of the long list of things he would never experience. Receiving Cerylia's love was one of those. As hard as it was (and at the present moment it felt very hard) he just had to accept it.

"What did you say?" Cerylia asked, listless and hopeless.

"I said, we need something heavy," Peter answered. He had been the one who was daydreaming for a moment.

"Try this," Cerylia said. She removed one of her boots and gave it to Peter.

It was a relief to him that she had, even momentarily stopped brooding and come up with a practical suggestion. He considered the options. The throw would have to be right first time and there was only a small amount of space on the blanket beyond the sword. Even if he succeeded there was no guarantee that it would be heavy enough, although perhaps if it was packed with ice...

The prisoners used their bare hands to scrape the thick frozen rime from the walls and floor and filled the boot. When they were finished, Peter's fingers were red and numb with cold. He took a few moments to warm them again.

Nothing ventured nothing gained. He cast the blanket again to its maximum extent and this time he didn’t pull it back.

He took Cerylia's boot and tested its weight, swinging it experimentally a few times. It needed a gentle lob and it had to be perfectly placed. He threw the boot in the direction of the end of the blanket. It landed squarely on the small flat patch where he had been aiming. Now the only question was, would it be heavy enough to move the sword or would the sword move it?

Peter pulled back very cautiously on the blanket. The boot was lighter than the sword and it begin to slide off the end of the blanket but it had made a difference. This time the sword was definitely moving closer! He felt his hand tremble with exhaustion and anticipation. Gently does it…

The blanket came free of the boot which was left behind on the temple floor. He gave a little sob of anguish as it slipped uselessly over the sword but then at the last moment the scabbard swung slightly towards him. He crouched down and stretched his right leg out, realising that he could make this reach further than his hand. The arch of his foot hooked over the scabbard and kicked it even closer. Now his hand could grasp the leather and pull it in.

"Got it!" he squawked in hoarse triumph.

"Someone's coming!" Cerylia squeaked in alarm.

Peter quickly grabbed the blanket and between them they fumbled to wrap it round them, hiding Wilkinson underneath.

It was Eryndra and Sunanon. Oddly (and luckily) the two agents didn’t pay any attention to the prisoners. They obviously had other things on their minds and they hurried to the Christmas Passage with only a final backward glance as they stepped through. Eryndra blew a mocking kiss back to Cerylia. 

"We're off to fetch the Proton King. See you later dear," she said.

As soon as the Agents were gone, Peter cast off the blanket and freed the sword from the scabbard. He studied the links in the metal chain, once again for the hundredth time. Perhaps the sword could be used to sever them? He worked the point between the links and tugged. The mental bent but the links did not break. Ah well. Patience was called for then. At least they now had a tool to work with. Given time, he thought they could cut the chains. But would they be given the time?