Muddle and Win by John Dickinson

them.
    ‘I didn’t know you had to ask,’ he said lamely.
    ‘See?’ said Sally, righting herself awkwardly. ‘You come in here, thinking you know best  . . . What did you want, anyway?’
    What did he want? Muddlespot focused on the question.
    Ah. Yes. And he’d better get on with it – before the Sleepless Watch came back to their bunks.
    ‘Ahem! Do I have your full attention?’
    ‘You’ve as much as you’re going to get,’ she said. ‘And it’ll be less every second.’
    He took a deep breath. ‘I’m here to get you to come over to
our
side,’ he said, with as much confidence as he could muster.
    She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘And how will you do that?’
    ‘By offering you all the nations of the Earth.’ Out of his sack he pulled a long, long scroll of what might have been cured skin, written with many comforting-looking mystic spiky characters in ink that might have been distilled from molten bone marrow. ‘All you have to do is bow down and worship me. Sign here, please.’
    Sally gave him another thoughtful look. One of her eyebrows lifted slightly, as if she detected that his origins might have been a bit on the warty side. ‘Could I worship Johnny Depp instead?’ she asked.
    Muddlespot hesitated. ‘Er  . . . that might be all right. Let me check.’
    Out came the book bound in black marble, followed by sounds of frantic rustling as Muddlespot searched for guidance.
    ‘Forget it,’ sighed Sally. ‘I’m not interested.’
    ‘What about wealth?’ asked Muddlespot hurriedly, still leafing through his book.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Fame?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Beauty?’
    The eyebrows lifted again – just a little.
    So
much can be said in just a little.
    ‘I mean – I mean
amazing
beauty,’ gabbled Muddlespot. ‘Beauty
even
more beautiful than you’ve got now. You know – crack-the-glass sort of beauty  . . . um  . . . What about it?’
    ‘You can’t take a hint, can you?’
    ‘Apple?’ said Muddlespot, producing one.
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Don’t you want
anything
?’ cried Muddlespot desperately.
    ‘I want you to tie me up again,’ said Sally, holding out her bonds. ‘Get to it.’
    ‘Tie you up? You
want
to be tied up?’
    ‘I’m good with it. Keeps me focused.’
    ‘No – hang on. This can’t be right  . . .’
    ‘It’s
my
mind, isn’t it?’
    ‘But—’
    ‘DO IT!’
    Hands trembling, Muddlespot began to wind the bonds around her. He was thinking, I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m letting her win. I should be saying something, talking her over  . . . Corozin will spread me all over his ceiling if he hears about this  . . . I’ve got to say
something
. Even if it’s only  . . .
    ‘Er  . . . how’s that?’
    ‘Tighter,’ growled Sally, picking up her pen.
    And Sally was thinking, There’s no time for this. To get the History essay done properly was going to take another hour. Then there would be dinner, and after dinner a chance to put in half an hour on next week’s Physics homework, do some reading (
Paradise Lost
) and get all her things ready for tomorrow. Mustn’t forget that washing-up too  . . .
    Cheek! Coming in here and starting to chat her up when she was already busy! And dumb. What had he
thought
she was going to say?
    Quite cute though. That air of helpless bewilderment made her want to pat him on the head and say, ‘There, there, don’t mind so much. You’ll be better at this when you’ve had – er – quite a lot of practice  . . .’
    He was still fumbling with her bonds. She wished he would hurry up. For his sake as well as hers. It couldn’t be long before the  . . .

     . . . guards came back.

A STRANGE MURMUR filtered down crystal corridors. Beneath the arches the air trembled. The music wavered. In their alcoves and on their plinths, the heads of blank-eyed statues bent to listen. It was a sound they had not heard in a long, long while.
    The mind of Sally Jones was undergoing a mild