The high collar is itchy, and his hair is too long, folding over his forehead like a heavy blanket, sweat beading under it. The pistol is heavy in his hand, and it shakes. He'd hoped that it would never come to this.

Confrontation. It's beneath him really, for he fancies himself a rake, a highwayman, but with more panache. He usually makes his escape in the dark of night, absconding with a lady's virtue as well as her jewels. But, no, not this time. This time he's been caught. Thankfully, he'd managed to make his way out of Lucilla's bedroom, and he'd at least the courtesy of being fully dressed. But "fully dressed" for a man of his time doesn't include the ruby and pearl necklace in his pocket and the small pouch of golden coins in his sock.

Albion, Lucilla's husband, stands at the other end of his pistol, which would be advantageous, had Albion's own not been leveled at his head. Sadly, the other man's gun hand does not waver, and John Wyndham fears that this is to be his last day.

"Three." A snap of fingers, and Wesley sits up suddenly from the comfortable couch in the dim room. He accepts a glass of water before leaving, and spends the walk back to the Hyperion in a thoughtful daze.

"How was it?" Cordelia asks, as he enters the office and hangs up his jacket. "Did it work?"

He sighs. "No, Cordelia. As I suspected, past life regression is bunk."