“No one hired me,” Westley said. “I was working strictly freelance. And I didn’t kidnap her; I saved her from others who were doing that very thing.”
“You seem a reasonable fellow, and my Princess claims to have known you many years, so I will give you, on her account, one last and final chance: the name of the man in Guilder who hired you. Tell me or face torture.”
“No one hired me, I swear.”
The Count set fire to Westley’s hands. Nothing permanent or disabling; he just dipped Westley’s hands in oil and brought a candle close enough to set things bubbling. When Westley had screamed “NO ONE—NO ONE—NO ONE—ON MY LIFE!” a sufficient number of times, the Count dipped Westley’s hands in water, and he and the Prince left via the underground entrance, leaving the medication to the albino, who was always nearby during the torturing times, but never visible enough to be distracting.
“I feel quite invigorated,” the Count said as he and the Prince began to ascend the underground staircase. “It’s a perfect question. He was telling the truth, clearly; we both know that.”
The Prince nodded. The Count was privy to all his innermost plans for the revenge war.
“I’m fascinated to see what happens,” the Count went on. “Which pain will be least endurable? The physical, or the mental anguish of having freedom offered if the truth is told, then telling it and being thought a liar.”
“I think the physical,” said the Prince.
“I think you’re wrong,” said the Count.
Actually, they were both wrong; Westley suffered not at all throughout. His screaming was totally a performance to please them; he had been practicing his defenses for a month now, and he was more than ready. The minute the Count brought the candle close, Westley raised his eyes to the ceiling, dropped his eyelids over them, and in a state of deep and steady concentration, he took his brain away. Buttercup was what he thought of. Her autumn hair, her perfect skin, and he brought her very close beside him, and had her whisper in his ear throughout the burning: “I love you. I love you. I only left you in the Fire Swamp to test your love for me. Is it as great as mine for you? Can two such loves exist on one planet at one time? Is there that much room, beloved Westley?…”
The albino bandaged his fingers.
Westley lay still.
For the first time, the albino started things. Whispered: “You better tell them.”
From Westley, a shrug.
Whispered: “They never stop. Not once they start. Tell them what they want to know and have done with it.”
Shrug.
Whispered: “The Machine is nearly ready. They are testing it on animals now.”
Shrug.
Whispered: “It’s for your own good I tell you these things.”
“My own good? What good? They’re going to kill me anyway.”
From the albino: nod.
The Prince found Buttercup waiting unhappily outside his chamber doors.
“It’s my letter,” she began. “I cannot make it right.”
“Come in, come in,” the Prince said gently. “Maybe we can help you.” She sat down in the same chair as before. “All right, I’ll close my eyes and listen; read to me.”
“‘Westley, my passion, my sweet, my only, my own. Come back, come back. I shall kill myself otherwise. Yours in torment, Buttercup.’” She looked at Humperdinck. “Well? Do you think I’m throwing myself at him?”
“It does seem a bit forward,” the Prince admitted. “It doesn’t leave him a great deal of room to maneuver.”
“Will you help me to improve it, please?”
