Slow-Dancing In A Burning Room

Ah, blessed, blessed warmth.

Margaret loosened her collar, freeing herself from the suffocating bodice. Anthony threw his tattered jacket onto the chair, sliding down his tie. The incinerator was running at full steam, the rusted metal grille glowing with a life that it had never experienced within its rusted walls in the last hundred years. The ballroom was covered in a shimmer, the very air around them awakening, slowly stirring into motion.

"Shall we?" she reached out a damp hand over to her sweltering partner. Frowning under the beads of sweat clinging to the underside of his eyebrows, Anthony forced his lips into a final smile. A grin so exuberant and fake that Margaret nearly believed it to be true.

The curtains closest to the incinerator were beginning to curl up, roasting like meat on a spit. It wasn't going to be long before the entire room shared the same fate, taking the two of them along for the deadly ride. Anthony raised his deadened arm with some effort, wincing each time his fluttering heartbeat pumped a wave of blood through his body and out in a spurt through the bullet wound in his arm.

"We shall, dear," he muttered through his grin. Raising himself on unsteady feet, he stepped up close to the love of his life, embracing her around her waist. Margaret matched him tooth for exposed tooth, ignoring the gash in her faded satin ballgown that reached down into her midriff, a deep red line that would have stopped her from breathing, let alone stand and dance like they were.

The horn of the age-old gramophone on the mantelpiece had long since wilted to the searing heat from the incinerator, so they had to imagine their oft-loved favourites in their heads. Clutching each other tightly, they limped from foot to foot, smiling broader than they ever had in their lives until then.

All that was left was Satin Doll. In the five minutes left to them, Margaret and Anthony chose to ignore the world around them, ignore their carpets and clothes catching fire as the last dying embers of the heat cubes were used up by the machine. They knew the death that awaited them. The temperature outside was nearly at absolute zero; their very sweat would freeze instantly on their skins as the very air inside their lungs turned to liquid, drowning them in the most ironic substance possible.

The blues tracks played on in their heads as they cried and laughed at the same time, bled and sweated at the same time, equal parts ecstatic and despaired at the same time. Never before had they ever felt this alive. Never after were they ever going to. All that mattered was this moment.

My dear, we're
Slow dancing in a bur-ning room.

The last specks of the heat cubes vanished. The end came swiftly and without warning. Margaret and Anthony locked eyes and held on until the last instant that they possibly could. And just like that, it was over. The universe returned to its cold, dark, lifeless self after extinguishing the last flickering flame of life.

Humanity's last stand was over.


********************************************************************************************************************************************************

"Queen Margaret!"

"Your Highness, please save us! Save our souls from this abomination!"

Anthony had had enough.

"Shut up!" he snarled, baring just an inch of ceremonial Toledo steel. The hundreds of clamouring peasants outside the balcony quietened down, but he could see the undeniable panic in their wide eyes. Everyone knew just how dire the situation was.

"Dear people."

The Queen seemed to have found her voice at last. Anthony stepped back behind his liege, sheathing his previously-obsolete weapon. As one of the Queen's Guard, he'd been trained in the art of swordsmanship, but with the advent of modern technology, he'd never thought he'd have to use what his grizzled instructor had beaten into him.

The speech Margaret had to make was not easy. It would have been just as difficult for her father, once considered the greatest orator in all of Britannia. There was a certain tact associated with the art of moving entire crowds to a fever pitch or to quieten the roiling masses with but a word. Both of these invaluable lifelines were moot this dark day. Oh no, not metaphorically dark. That would still have been better than this.

Just to be sure this wasn't a dream, the Knight broke protocol and fished inside his ceremonial waistcoat for his fob chain. Pulling out his only family heirloom, he checked its quietly ticking face for the thousandth time that morning. Although whether that time could even be called 'morning' anymore was up for some serious debate if they didn't have more pressing concerns.

Seven minutes past ten. More than three hours had passed since a phenomenon everyone was used to hadn't happened for the first time.

"As you all can clearly see, we are in an unprecedented moment of catastrophe."

No, no, no! Anthony cringed as his liege continued. The tenser she was, the heavier her diction got. The common folk were not going to understand her, and their ignorance would only make matters worse. Margaret was the last person anyone wanted on the throne for such an event, given her rather airy personality and general lack of attention to the woes of her subjects.

To be perfectly fair, her words weren't sans reason. The pitch black sky showing the zodiac of Libra right where the sun should have been was enough to rip one's composure to shreds. At least Margaret hadn't fallen prey to the panic and said something rather un-majestic.

"Save our souls from this black plague, Your Highness!"

"Has God forsaken us? Why must we suffer so?"

The murmuring had returned, louder than ever. Anthony itched to bare his sword again, clutching his ceremonial hilt. Damn, why did everything on his person have to be ceremonial? At this moment of crisis? Only a sense of duty to his Queen prevented him from bursting the popping veins in the foreheads of the nearest clamourers.

"I shall have silence, and I shall have it now!"

The thousands amassed in Tudor Square fell silent at the uncharacteristic sound of Margaret's voice. Anthony whipped his gaze across to his Queen. Where had that come from? Her expression was pained but resolute, and her white hands looked paler than usual as they gripped her sceptre with a manic strength. The bell-like frills of her ballgown shook as she pushed down her anger and her frustration and her panic. The entire nobility had threatened to pull their financial and political support from the throne if she didn't make this emergency public appearance.

"Preparations are underway. This is but a minor setback. The State Researcher has assured me that a solution to this problem exists. Until then, grab whatever fuel you can find. Push it into your boilers, shove it into your fireplaces! Do everything in your power to ensure that you stay warm. The moment the answer presents itself, the Government assures that it will be distributed to all of you free of cost."

The crowd couldn't possibly have believed that-

Anthony's jaw dropped. The amassed tide of humanity had dropped their fear. Hardened, resolute looks mirroring Her Highness's were visible on literally every face he could discern. Had they decided to give up their doubts and rely on faith alone? Was that what this was? For some reason, despite the overwhelming response, Anthony couldn't believe it for even a second. The knight caught Margaret glancing his way out of the corner of her eyes.

Passion. Unadulterated.

The sky was still black, the situation just as dire. But that one look reaffirmed that Sir Anthony Lowell, Head Knight to the Throne, was loyal to but one woman. Had sworn his undying fealty to but one woman. It was then that the first decision was taken by the twenty-four-year-old of his own volition. Gripping his scabbard till his fingers hurt, he stepped up to the main balcony plinth, right in view of the commons. The rumbling of discontent began anew, rising with every step he took to approach his liege. In a way that it wouldn't be visible to the masses, he clasped Margaret's hand and prised it off the sceptre, intertwining his fingers with hers.

"You heard your Queen!" Anthony's voice echoed dully off the buildings surrounding the cobblestone square.

"Endure, people! ENDURE!"

"GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!"

Despite the nature of the situation, the people couldn't help an instinct that had been drilled into them. The first echo of voices to his chant was reluctant and hushed. Anthony pressed on.

"GOD! SAVE! THE! QUEEN!" Margaret squeezed his trembling palm with every screamed word.

"GOD...SAVE...THE...QUEEN!" the crowd chanted.

"GOD...SAVE...THE...QUEEN!"

"GOD...SAVE..."

Us... Anthony pleaded.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

It was like watching history unfold in reverse.

After the sun had finally set over the entirety of Britannia for the first time, things could only have proceeded one way, and they did, almost like clockwork. Despite their best efforts, the Royal Institution's finest could only do so much to tackle a problem with such little notice. Every hour it got just a little colder, and even as the entire city redoubled their efforts to keep as warm as they could, the indisputable fact was that they were all going to freeze to death without the Sun. Giving up one modern comfort after another, humanity continued their steady march back inwards after first boldly stepping forth into the unknown.

Margaret could do nothing. Literally nothing. In the palace, the fires burnt strong, but she knew that things were getting worse outside. Much worse. Greenhouse gases could only do so much to keep the Earth's dwindling heat in check from the absolute zero of outer space. Whatever time they had now was a luxury indeed. A luxury her subjects were thoroughly wasting.

As a child, she'd only heard rumours of the legendary fire that had ravaged half the capital. By the time she was born, even memories of the Plague of London were a hundred and fifty years old. That chilly December evening, when she'd first heard of the fire of 1666, was still stuck in her head. Her nanny had tried to put her to sleep, but with Margaret being the restless little thing that she was, had refused to so much as close her eyes until she was told a scary story.

"All right, all right, child," the then near-decrepit nanny had croaked, before telling the little princess the most traumatising story of her then young life. For the next twenty years, Margaret had handled all political, religious and royal matters with the same fear keeping her spine erect. The very fear of being obliterated off the face of the earth that was being realised in front of her right that instant.

The city burned with fury. Through the fogged-up windows of her chambers, she had a very good view of the carnage unfolding right across the slowly-freezing river Thames. The thousands of farms on the outskirts of the city all lay abandoned as the public chose to flock back to the capital in a last-ditch attempt to save their own lives and avoid the cold. And as exhaling naturally followed as a consequence of breathing in, the disputes and infighting broke out almost immediately after. The first bonfire was lit barely two hours after Margaret's royal proclamation, signalling as clearly as ever how little her word meant to the populace.

A loud rap on the doorknob brought her attention back to her surroundings. Shuffling in her winter finery, Margaret made her way to the heavy wooden doors, heaving them open with a great effort. She'd never once had to pull one of these massive things open before - it had always been done for her, but with the royal guard busy putting out the rampant arson attempts across London, she was left to fend for herself.

How ironic indeed. We're hastening our downfall with the one thing that can actually delay it.

The Chamberlain stepped in, carrying a thick bundle of sun-dried firewood. Margaret allowed him through, and the aged man bowed, his knees shaking with the weight of the kindling he was hefting on his back.

"Please, let me."

Ignoring the man's feeble protests, the Queen lifted the wood from his wizened frame. As the weight of the aspen branches hit her delicate arms, Margaret nearly toppled over, but with a sheer force of will, she maintained her balance. She had already lost everything but this. Her dignity would have to be taken by force. Waddling over to the sputtering hearth with the bundle grazing the delicate satin folds of her bodice, she gingerly dropped in a couple of the largest branches. The dying flames crackled and sent out a whoosh of embers, singeing the front of her elaborate skirts.

The hearth was back to its original glow, and Margaret turned to see the Chamberlain try to move the massive doors, shivering from the cold that had begun to seep in even a few feet from any fire. Her heart sank at the sheer pathos of the sight. Lifting her warm garments, she reseated herself a couple of feet further from the fireplace and called out to her aged servant.

"Chamberlain!"

The man turned around, but Margaret could see that it was with a deliberate effort. Clearing the catch from her throat, she assumed a fleeting air of royal command and replied.

"Please join me by the fire. You must be freezing."

"But, your Highness-"

"I insist."

The frown lines on his forehead went away partially. The man shuffled back away from the doors, seating himself as far as he could from the Queen as could be considered proper. She had asked him to join her, and any further would be violating that order.

They don't even want to sit near me now... Margaret sighed miserably.

"Your Highness!"

The door swung open as if it was so much thin air, crashing loudly against the inner jamb. Margaret's heart stopped for a beat as Anthony rested his hand on the still-closed half of the entryway, gasping for air.

"Anthony?"

"They've done it, Margaret!" he whispered between breaths. The Chamberlain's eyes widened. Margaret? His questioning gaze asked her.

"They've found a solution!"

Margaret found herself breathless as well. A flood of emotions previously kept in check poured out of her as she burst into tears.

"Praise be...the Lord!" she replied, her eyes focused right on the source of the incredibly jubilant tidings.

"They've-"

Anthony clamped his mouth shut with his free hand, realising his mistake too late. The discovery was meant for the Queen's ears only. And now...

Fuck.

********************************************************************************************************************************************************

The siege began as quickly as it possibly could.

Small barricades of gunny sacks filled with fast-freezing rocks and newly-formed permafrost covered every possible exit from the castle, with fifteen or more desperate commoners shivering behind each of them. The others chose not to take cover, standing unarmed next to the gates in their thousands, screaming at the guards to let them in.

Anthony sped towards the laboratory via the outer wall, sparing but a glance at the wretches gathering, swaddled in every piece of warm clothing they could find and more, just because Margaret had not allowed him to silence one single Chamberlain. The rapid pace of proceedings was incredible. Little over a day ago, these very peasants had hope that the Crown would save them, hope that a solution to ensure everyone's survival would be found. Now that news of the miracle that would be their salvation had spread, along with the very distasteful yet contagious rumour that the Palace was going to keep the 'elixir of heat' away from the hands of the public, it was but obvious that the entire city would turn on its Government. Yet, how the servant had managed to spread the word within the last two hours was indeed impressive.

Not the time for idle thoughts, Anthony grimaced as he hurried through the corridor, opening a secret passageway leading back to the very laboratory he'd just come from. "Give me just an hour, perhaps two," Sir Lester Haddock, head of the RI, had assured him, "And the miracle will be ready."

A loud crash distracted him momentarily, making him lose track of the number of revolutions he'd turned the circular combination lock. Anthony cursed his luck. That sound could only mean one thing. The commoners had broken through the outer walls.

Damn it, there just isn't enough time! He headed down to the laboratory doors and burst through them, nearly toppling the first row of glassware in his haste. Stopping for a second to compose himself, Anthony tucked his blonde curls behind his ear and stepped into the scientists' den. The warlock-esque creatures huddled over their Bunsen burners paid him no heed, and neither did he. Stepping up to the makeshift dais in the corner, he waited for the diminutive, balding head researcher to finish whatever he was occupied with. Sir Haddock made no move to leave his workstation, plunging a bright orange ball into a vat of bubbling liquid instead.

Anthony cleared his throat. Loudly. The scientist suddenly broke out of his reverie, facing the flustered knight. Something in the shifty expression Haddock had on his face told him that the answer wasn't going to be as rosy as he'd hoped.

"So?" he asked Haddock anyway.

"Hmmm..." the man took an age to answer every question, mulling over his words like a chess player over his pieces. "The experiments have shown us some success, at least, and we have isolated the material we need, but..."

"But?" Anthony's voice cracked a little as he shivered away a sudden cold wave. God, those were getting more frequent by the minute.

"There isn't nearly enough time, dear boy," Lester finished, his monotone constant despite the situation and the temperature. "Not nearly enough. Of course, this is ignoring the obvious flaw in just solving the immediate problem. What comes next? How will we feed ourselves? How will any winds flow? Will there ever be any fog, any rain, anything?"

"I don't care!" Anthony pushed his rising panic to the back of his mind. "Just give me a straight answer."

Haddock sighed with the gravity of a man sentenced to the gallows. "Well, dear boy, here it is."

Pulling out the sphere he'd just inserted into the frothing liquid, he used a small hammer to break open the sides, revealing the contents of the hollow orange ball. Three orange cubes, around the size of game dice, rolled out onto the granite countertop. Picking up a couple with his prematurely wrinkled hand, he held them out to Anthony.

"This is the temporary solution, and if I may say so, a rather short-sighted one." Anthony peered at the small orange dice. They seemed...ordinary, to say the least. How were these going to save the kingdom? He repeated the same question to the head researcher.

"Let me demonstrate." Lester limped over to a strange contraption in the shadows of the laboratory. It looked like the boiler of a locomotive engine, but it appeared to be from an era far preceding the steam engine, given the rust on the entire thing. Flipping open the metal grille, Haddock placed one of the orange cubes in the centre of the space inside the boiler. Picking out an ornate aluminium lighter from the pocket of his trousers, he lit a corner of the cube and quickly shut the grille, pulling out a cigarette with his free hand at the same time.

"How does it work?" Anthony was still confused. How can that pipsqueak thing possibly-

The room suddenly changed. Gone were the cold waves. Gone was the impending threat of mass annihilation by the sheer darkness. Anthony's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. The entire environment seemed like a normal day, except for the lack of sunlight. The weary lethargy that accompanied the biting cold suddenly disappeared from the knight's body and was replaced by a growing euphoria. Anthony felt elated, felt giddy with happiness, felt almost sleepy because of the warmth. It was a warmth one could only experience in the late afternoon sunlight on a cold winter's day, the slanting rays of the divine life-giver inducing a near-comatose state of relaxation.

"...there isn't enough of the raw material to make more than the ones I just prepared," Haddock had continued on with his explanation, unaware that the knight had stopped paying attention. "Also, the incinerator that can use the heat cubes as fuel is an incredibly rare contraption in this day and age. Only two have survived through to exist today. One is here, and the other-"

"Give them to me."

"Sir Lowell?" the researcher was mildly surprised at the interruption.

"I said, give the heat cubes to me. Now. That's an order." Anthony's voice was low but menacing. He knew where he'd seen the other incinerator. Now, if he could only get Margaret out of her needless negotiations with the rebel leaders and back there, there could still be some time left. Some time left to-

"I'm extremely sorry, dear boy."

Anthony caught the flash of a muzzle in the far corner of his vision and immediately ducked to his right. A loud shot resonated through the cramped laboratory, and he felt the bullet catch him right in the arm, just below the shoulder. A clean shot. The lead ball had travelled right through the bone. Rolling down amid the research tables for cover, he felt the arm slowly lose all feeling and fall limply to his side. Had he moved even a second later, that bullet would have gone clean through his chest, ending things once and for all.

Fingering his sword, Anthony assessed his options. There was one of him. Half, rather. Three scientists in the first row, four in the second, and three more in the third, one of them with a gun that was virtually as useful as a spear. Of course, there was the chance that they had another loaded musket somewhere in the room, but Anthony decided to play his chances for once.

Vaulting the low wooden wall, he let his left shoulder push through the mass of bottles placed in the wooden racks, ignoring the small yet persistent stabs of pain his wound sent him. Slashing preemptively, he caught his shooter off guard and drove the Toledo steel in between his floating ribs, the razor-sharp sword filleting his heart. In the same motion, he rammed his sword shoulder into the man next to him, winding him right in the solar plexus. As the scientist doubled up in pain, Anthony slid in the blade in a practised, almost surgical drive through the slope between the neck and the shoulders, piercing the heart for the second time in a row.

Two down, nine to go.

The third man in the same row barely had the time to react. The knight was onto him in a flash. All he saw was a flash of his killer's eyes, and the barest glint of desperation and insanity amid the determination made him take pause to notice. That little instant was enough. A solid cut through the neck and Anthony was already leaping across to the next row before the man's lifeless body even had time to hit the floor. He glided through the rest of the untrained, physically infirm Royal Institution scientists in the next minute and a half, leaving Sir Lester Haddock for last.

Approaching the man with soundless, feline steps, Anthony never even gave a second's thought to whether the man would be useful alive. Raising his sword high, he prepared the final strike without a single thought in his consciousness. As the blade descended on the hapless man's neck, Anthony made the mistake of looking his victim straight in the eye.

Haddock's eyes were resolute, in the exact same way the commoners' were. There was no fear at all, no regret at having his life cut in half by a tragedy no one could have possibly predicted. What difference did a few hours make? Lester's steadfast gaze seemed to proclaim. Anthony hesitated, but it was too late. The sword sliced clean through the head researcher's chest instead of his neck, and the knight was greeted with a shower of blood as a consequence of his mistake. As he bled to death, Lester's arm fell to the floor, his loosening fingers releasing what they were so desperately clutching.

One last protest. One last stand from humanity. One last desperate plea against the selfishness that has gotten me into this mess in the first place.

Anthony sheathed his blade, picking up the orange heat cube from Haddock's lifeless palm. Walking over to the granite countertop, he pocketed the second one, also taking the ornamental lighter. He knew what he'd just done; the consequences of his actions were damning. The RI could have used the time granted by the cubes to think of a better solution, and perhaps they deserved to. But the Knight had sworn fealty to but one liege, and as dire as the situation was, he was determined on fulfilling his promise to act in only her best interests till his own deathbed. If that meant only hastening the certain doom humanity was headed toward, then so be it.

Now, the only problem lies in getting Margaret out of the main hall of the castle, and into the King's chambers.

Anthony remembered being shown the chambers the King inhabited only once in his life; the then Captain of the Guard had taken an enthusiastic cadet knight into the royal chambers for an audience with His Majesty. Anthony remembered that special visit as clear as it was yesterday, the old coughing man on the bed barking out orders, an entire audience of sycophants hanging on his every word. His mind had wandered over to the decor soon enough, and he'd studied the ancient, near-decrepit contraption in the corner of the massive room with great interest until the Guard Captain had dragged him out of the room and given him a good beating for not bowing when he was supposed to.

That's quite enough! He brought himself to his current predicament with a vigorous shake of his head. The strange cube still burned inside the boiler, glowing dully, giving off enough heat to keep the room warm despite the frost on the other side of the windows signalling the beginning of the end. The warmth and the blood loss was making his mind wander. Grabbing Haddock's tunic, he tore off a section not stained by blood and wrapped the cloth tightly around the bullet wound, staunching the bleeding for the time being. Tying off the bandage with his teeth, he stepped towards the laboratory door.

Margaret had better be done negotiating by now-

BOOM!

The explosion travelled through the walls of the castle, shaking it to its very foundation,

The hell was that? Anthony vaulted the corpse of one of his victims, pulling the door open. The deathly cold hit him like a sledgehammer, and his body froze up with the shock, refusing to re-enter the dreaded environment. Step after step Anthony pushed himself into the frosty air, breaking into a desperate run to ensure that he stayed warm. The cold air seemed to sap a little of his life with every deep breath he took, and the moisture in his breath froze every time he exhaled. He ran blindly in the crushing blackness, past the secret opening, past the crumbling outer wall, past the barricades that the rebels had just broken through. In his mind was but a single desperate prayer.

Keep Margaret safe till I reach her. Please. Please. Please. I beg thee, God Almighty.

Please.

He took the barricade stairs three at a time, his dead arm flailing behind like a grotesque windsock. Jumping onto the frozen ground, he looked around for the source of the second explosion. Surely, Margaret was still negotiating in the main hall. Nothing could have possibly happened to her just yet. Taking a second to orient himself, Anthony sprinted towards the central enclosure. Turning the corner next to the main gate, he vaulted the broken stone wall, landing on the other side awkwardly, bringing his run to an uncomfortable halt. Shaking the numbness from his body, he raised himself, ready for a second sprint-

"We mean no harm!"

Margaret was on the front lines. He glimpsed her silhouette in the backdrop of the torches the rebels carried, the tattered remains of her voluminous skirt swaying in the slight breeze. Her arms were outstretched to show that she carried no weapons, signifying that the entire entourage that trailed her, nobility and guardsmen, had come in peace.

Anthony's relief at seeing her alive was matched only by a rapidly rising dread. This gate was more than thrice as far from the King's chambers as the main hall. That meant it would be nearly impossible to convince her to accompany him back to-

"To hell with the Queen!"

One of the rebel commoners stabbed the love of his life with his makeshift spear, right through her midriff.

Anthony's mind went blank.

What...the...hell...


********************************************************************************************************************************************************

"...thony!"

"Anthony!"

"Anthony!"

He returned to his senses.

There was an odd heavy feeling on his left side. Opening his eyes, he glanced down to see Margaret clutching on to his waist for dear life, her face scrunched up in anguish. She was barely conscious except for occasionally muttering his name between gulps of air. His entire ceremonial outfit was caked with frozen blood, most of it hers. His left arm had lost all feeling, but for a small tingling that reminded him that it was still attached to his body.

Behind them lay a trail of blood, most of which had frozen already. A steady stream of corpses lay in Anthony's wake, the result of an aggressive attack he'd launched into without a second thought, most of which he was too tired to even remember anymore. The moment Margaret had been stabbed in front of his very eyes, something deep inside the knight had snapped, and he was only now beginning to return to any semblance of consciousness.

The night surrounded them, absolute in its darkness. In the distance, a few buildings still burned brightly, but the alley they were in was totally devoid of light. The cold was more than just deathly now. It was unrelenting. Unforgiving. Worse than anything they had ever experienced. It had seeped into their bones now, and the accompanying lethargy was near-debilitating. And yet, Anthony pressed on, his liege clinging to his side. An answer was only marginally more likely than zero if they kept moving, but the knight persevered. Dragging his feet on the hard-frozen ground, he pulled Margaret along, driven more by faith than any reason whatsoever.

When the last vestiges of reason fail you, all you're left with is faith. One of Margaret's favourite lines. One she recited to him everytime he'd complain about his social status. Every time they'd sneak off together into the palace garden to have some time completely to themselves. Anthony had always remained a sceptic, but now...

I believe you, Margaret. I believe in you, God Almighty.

The footing beyond was treacherous at best, but Anthony pressed on. One false step and they both would slip and crack their skulls on the rock-hard tundra. Anthony leaned hard on his ceremonial blade, using it as a crutch to keep moving ahead.

When, oh God, when? When can we expect deliverance from this cold hell?

Almost as if in reply to that very question, Anthony's crutch slipped on the ice. Left without a support, the pair stumbled to the right. Anthony was at the end of his tether. Allowing gravity to do its bit, he placed step after faltering step to the right, expecting to crash into the wall right next to them, collapse to the ground and freeze to death, his semi-conscious queen hugging him for dear life.

Instead, he kept on going, hurtling faster and faster towards the right, entering through a chance opening where a door had once been. Margaret's grip weakened; she collapsed to the ground with a whimper. Anthony continued his rather long fall, hitting his head on a metal object before finally reaching the ground. His eyes were failing him; Anthony could feel nothing but the two cubes he'd taken digging into his thigh. Margaret moaned in her fitful trance, and Anthony got a very strong impulse to go back to her, to die entwined in her arms. Raising his frostbitten fingers, he scrabbled behind his head for some purchase. Something he could use to get back on his feet.

His frozen fingers slipped through the slits of a metal grille.