Cerys opened her mouth to speak, but the words tangled in her throat like wet thread on a spindle. The pain in her arm was a constant, grinding presence that made it hard to think clearly, and the fatigue that had been building since she'd woken in the carriage after her fall pressed down on her mind like a sodden wool blanket.
But the young woman's hand was still resting on her arm, just above the wrist of her unbroken hand, and there was something in that touch that anchored her. Not warmth, exactly, though the woman's fingers were warm enough. Something steadier than that, as if her touch were helping Cerys to ground herself even as the currents of fatigue and pain threatened to sweep her away.
"I left a letter," Cerys said at last. Her words came out hoarse and brittle, but once she started speaking, it was easier to keep going. "For Cynwrig. I wrote him a letter before I took Dalwyn and left."
