THIRTY-FIVE
Rosamond's head ached. In truth, everything hurt, but her head was the worst. Her arms, from her wrists right up to her shoulders, burned, and so did her calves. Someone doused her in liquid and she spluttered, jerking awake.
She could see the whole city square from up here, for she was level with the cathedral's arched windows, and only a little lower than the castle battlements. That did not bode well, for the only thing high enough to give her such a vantage point was the Midsummer Eve bonfire with the wicker figure tied to the top. Rosamond twisted her head, trying to see if she had guessed right. Indeed she had. She was tied to the effigy, and if she didn't do something, she would burn with it.
From the plague to this. No kingdom deserved to have a princess lay down h
