Giving the smouldering wood a final, rather irritable slap with his apron, Merlyn leans over to peer down at the girl in the wizard robes. Oh, she got wizard's robes, with a proper hood no less, while he was stuck here in ridiculous by-our-lady trousers without a by-our-lady hat! Looking rather sulky - not that she can probably see, when he's so high up - he polishes his glasses on his sleeve, puts them on his nose, and looks down at her again.

"If I were to give you my needles," he says, rather acidly, "there would be very little point in my coming down there at all. I may as well stay up here, out of the way, and conjure myself some more." Then, scowling at the blackened oak of the rafter, "That is, if our by-our-lady jailers can refrain from setting me on fire for it, next time."