Bartholomew heard a bang.
Barely lifting a heavy head that had lolled over during the endless hours of walking, he slowly blinked. In a daze, he gaped at the dilapidated porch where a gloating Captain Sludge and smug Crone stood.
He imagined Alex saying. Do something B-3! Don’t just stand there like some sort of bump on a log.
Do something B-3! Don’t just stand there like some sort of bump on a log.But the ropes.
But the ropes.Wuss.
Wuss.I can’t do it. Not without you. His imaginary argument continued.
I can’t do it. Not without you. This was so much like the year before when he’d crouched under the platform as Mudlark Maker swallowed a terrified Artanian. He’d wanted to do something but was too insecure. He needed Alex by his side. Until a memory of a conversation with Vincent Van G
