Chapter V

In Which Samuel tries to come up with something resembling a plan.

With Machiavelli asleep and dawn breaking greyly, Samuel was suddenly very alone. Here he was, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Poet, Philosopher, and Junkie, standing in the middle of a graveyard having been flown in overnight from the Lake District.

It boggled the mind.

But what was he to do with himself? Get out of this cemetery for a start, he thought bitterly. Even in the growing light, the dankness and morbidity of his surroundings produced a chill. But where to go? He had no money, so paid accommodation was out of the question. His only recourse was to throw himself on the mercy of any one of his acquaintances who were in town. But who would believe his tale? Or how he had come so suddenly to be in London, when he was supposedly vacationing with William so far away? He almost sat down to think it over, but on recollecting where he was, banished the thought and quickened his pace. Finally clearing the cemetery gates, the perfect solution hit him like a flash. Well, perhaps it was not the perfect solution, but it was certainly something resembling a plan, and not a half-bad one at that.

Samuel exited the churchyard with purpose, his mind set and his path clear. Who else could be counted upon to receive him at this hour and under these circumstances? He would go to Byron.