Meanwhile at… at the… the… Oh, this is bad. So bad. It’s… I can’t… I…

**rocking and moaning and general about-to-curl-in-a-ball-and-hyperventilate behavior**

**reader pats narrator on back**

It’s not alright. It’s not. It’s never going to be alright. I messed up BIG, so big, and it’s—

No, no. I know you won’t tell, but what about everyone else? What about—

…

Really? You’re sure no one else has said anything? **sniff** No one?

…

…

Okay. Maybe…

Maybe you’re right. Maybe no one’s going to report me. Maybe I can… can just be extra careful from now on and… and just… **groan** Or I could just quit now and—

What?

Oh. You really think so? **sniff** I mean, a narrator wants to believe her characters need her, but… If you really think Elaine needs me, I guess I could… I wouldn’t really want to leave her stuck where she is. That’d be dreadful. Trapped in that jail with Cinnamon. **shudder**

No. You’re absolutely correct. I can’t quit. Not now. I just… just have to be extra careful. That’s all. VERY careful. **deep breath** Right. So. Elaine. Getting back to Elaine.

What?

Oh, screw Madame. She can drink her fat ass under the table for all I care, and I hope her wings fall off while she’s at it!

Moving on!

***

Right. Jailhouse. We were at the jailhouse. The jail where a… um… convenient accident that is totally believable and has nothing to do with any interference by outside and completely innocent sources who should definitely not be held accountable for said accident in any way has recently felled the single remaining obstacle in Elaine’s path to freeing Cinnamon.

We good so far? Good.

So. You all remember what happened right? There’s absolutely no reason for me to mention how the bulbous ogre head with its massive tusks wobbled on the wall for no known reason whatsoever. Or how the thick oak mounting plaque tilted precariously forward and discovered a newfound love of gravity that was totally not the fault of anyone standing in this room. And how, even though we all feel very sorry for the headache poor Ghomar is going to have when he awakens, it was absolutely NOT due to the actions, unintentional or otherwise, of anyone here that the ogre head took a diving headbutt directly into the skull of our giant guard. Not at all.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

It was purely shoddy workmanship on the part of whoever hung the mount. Right? Of course, right. Where’s Elaine?

Ah! As the giant man’s body wobbled weakly on his massive trunks and began slumping toward the floor, our brave girl managed a **squee!** and a very unladylike dive, narrowly avoiding being crushed beneath the behemoth. Now she is standing, peering down at the unfortunate Ghomar, in as much shock as the rest of us at the truly inconceivable coincidence that has just saved her mission. Truly. Utterly inconceivable.

And yes, I know what the word means. The peanut gallery can just keep their jokes to themselves.

In any case, Elaine is quickly beginning to conceive of her good fortune. Pausing only to roll the bullish cranium off her sleeping guard, because it cannot be comfortable to have several stone of “Hambaba: ‘Guardian’ of the Sacred Spruce of the Sulphur Springs of Salwahog. Buy one get one spa day on Tuesdays.” pinning one to the floor, she—

What? No! I’m not kidding. It says it right there on the nameplate under the ogre’s jaw. See? You think I make these things up? Seriously.

Anyway. Where’s Elaine gone. Right. There she is. Not wasting another moment of time—unlike some people—our fair heroine pelts down the hall between the cells, ignoring shouts and suggestions from the other prisoners. She slides to a stop outside Cinnamon’s cell, where Thom’s tiny torso is still fully buried in the lock.

“YOU!” Cinnamon is on her feet in an instant, fingers curled into ready fists. “You put me in here, and now you come seeking my help!? I could have taken you if it weren’t for that ox who fancied himself a woodsman.”

Elaine stops just short of the arms reaching through the iron bars and their flailing claws, and matches the glare of the lithe legerdemainist. “Being saddled with a self-important bint isn’t exactly my idea of fun either. Unfortunately, it’s either this or Yaga eats me. Or… gets me eaten. Maybe both.”

At the mention of Yaga, Cinnamon’s eyes go wide, and she stops her flailing as if frozen by an icy wind. “B- B- Baga Yaga sent you?” the terror choking the name in her throat as she speaks it.

[“No tha hagfish. Ta oth’r one. Sybil Yaga, tha witch o' tha relly long an' ridiculous name.”] Thom’s voice emerges, muffled by the gears inside the cell’s locking mechanism.

“Oh.” A malicious grin wipes the terror from our miscreant’s face. “Then maybe I should just let her eat you.”

“Then maybe I should just leave you here to rot,” Elaine returns.

The felonious female glares back at our brave heroine for a long moment. Then, with a shrug, a sweet and uncharacteristically agreeable expression settles over her face. “Not at all. I’d be happy to help you.”

“Uh huh,” Elaine mutters. “How are you at second story work?”

Cinnamon gives her a grin that would make a hen recount her eggs if she saw it on a fox and purrs, “Excellent.”

“Good. Cause if you screw up Sybil’s little caper, you’ll be the one she eats.”

A twist of fear briefly crosses the iniquitous inmate’s face, which clearly satisfies our girl. "Great. Now if Thom is quite done messing with that lock, we need to make ourselves scarce."

With a sharp click the cell door swings open and Thom withdraws his torso. “[Cop on, ye gammy beou,]” he mumbles, presenting Elaine with a very rude gesture.

Ignoring the unprofessionalism of the tiny lock pick, our fair damsel tosses her newly acquired criminal a cloak purloined from the guards’ personal coat rack. “Good. Time to move.”

And with that the trio makes their escape.

***

Meanwhile at the Withershins Inn…