THIRTY-SEVEN
"Siward?" Rosamond croaked, then coughed. Too much smoke. "Are you all right?"
His arm stuck out at an unnatural angle, and she could feel the pain rolling off him in waves. Broken ribs, and more besides, she guessed. Much like herself. The soot-smeared man groaned.
Rosamond squirmed around until she could see his face. Yes, he was her husband. His face looked merely smoke-blackened, and his wet, woollen clothes had protected the rest of the him from the fire, but his hands...oh, his poor hands. So badly burned there was barely any skin left.
Their tumble had loosened her bonds, so she managed to get one hand free, then the other. Her feet could wait. She took Siward's bleeding, blackened hands in hers and kissed them, wishing with all her might that she had the energy to
