Come out to the country, they said. We haven’t seen you in ages. You can camp on our land, just like when you were ten, they said.

Connor hated camping.

He’d hated it since he was ten, when he’d pitched over an angry ant colony. The moment etched deeper into his memory with every bite. Wetting himself and running screaming into his cousins wearing only socks and soaked briefs was just putting a hat on a hat, Jane laughed so hard she threw up, not a great start to the day.

He also hated his nephews, they were noisy, smelly and had no sense of personal space.

All in, no real incentive, but he wanted a break and if he kept away from bugs, he’d be fine. Well, that’s what they said.

“Lord Blackthorne, does not my appearance please you?”

It pleased him, much more than the bee that stung him as he rolled over in his sleeping bag. He figured this was an allergic reaction; he was probably in a coma right now, that wasn’t a problem.

Lady Buxomely-Bridges was lying next to him naked, so real he could smell the halitosis on her breath. He knew who she was, despite never meeting her. No one ever had, not in the flesh anyway.

“Just to be clear, you’re a figment of my imagination, right?” He rolled to face her on the soft mattress, propped himself up on an elbow.

“My Lord, your manner of speech is so peculiar. Perhaps you have partaken an excess of Absynthe?” She played with a nipple, something he found hugely distracting. Connor diverted his gaze to a carved bedpost and gathered his thoughts. He knew what was happening because he’d read most of this book, on the way over in fact. It was in the carriage, boredom and opportunity overcame his embarrassment — he’d found it entertaining. Blackthorne eventually goes insane, gets lobotomised by his lover’s husband. It was Doctor C-Something Buxomely-Bridges, was it Carl?

“Carlos!” That was it. “It is not how it appears my love.” The Lady sounded scared. It was fine, Blackthorne didn’t go nuts until chapter 24.

Connor turned to the door. “Hey Doc, this is a private moment. Any chance you could come back in a couple of chapters?”

* * *

The asylum was cold, dark, full of despair and insects, not unlike his tent. Other similarities included persistent damp and the fact that he shouldn’t be here. The affair was chapter 4, there were pages and pages of raunch to wade through before the historically inaccurate electro-convulsive-therapy took Blackthorne’s mind.

Also, he wasn’t Blackthorne.

That entire explanation, in hindsight, hadn’t helped his current situation at all. He rubbed his chest. The shocks hadn’t hurt his head, but his pecs were on fire. That was the clue.

He had to convince them he was sane, long enough to postpone getting pick-axed in his brain, escape. That meant embracing the poor writing, Blackthorne could seduce anyone within fifty yards by merely raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, it is mighty. Is there any chance you could keep it inside your pantaloons until we clear the guards?”

“My Lord. Are you not pleased?”

“Yes!” Everyone was perfect, it would be hard not to be pleased. “Yes, but our time here is most short. Guards, then fun. okay?”

It seemed obvious. The shocks hurt his chest because paramedics were restarting his heart, or whatever those paddle things did. Getting freed should return him to his world, however, after three months he was still getting tied down and electrocuted daily, and he was out of dialogue.

This was his last hope, Carlos had scheduled the lobotomy. At least two-hundred pages early.

The guard booth provided access to a dark corridor, low ceilinged, hewn from solid rock. At its end, through an open gate, shone the brightest sunlight Connor had ever seen.

“Flipping-A. That whole light-at-the-end rubbish is actually real!”

“My Lord? Maybe your mind would benefit more from a longer stay?”

“Erm, yonder light flatters your countenance so, I was thus taken of breath?” It seemed to work. Connor lay flat on the gurney, pulled the sheet over his head, closed his eyes tight and held his breath.