Bartholomew glanced at the clock. Ten thirty-six and his arms were still fastened behind the chair. He did the math. Only an hour and a half till midnight. He wriggled his aching shoulders, imagining his delivery to Captain Sludge.
After everyone left, he had sought something sharp. He scooted the wooden chair all over the hotel room but found nothing to cut rope. Even though the Artanians were under a spell, they still could anticipate what he’d do when left alone.
First they cleared everything off the messy table, including the knife. That had been a blow; he was sure he could have used it. Next, they inspected every square inch of the room, picking up various objects, determining how each might be used to escape.
Finally, they secured his bindings and exited on some Swiney mission. H
