Like a moth drawn to a candlelight, Lachlan sat down on the spot she'd warmed on the floor. He couldn't feel his nose anymore, and he was certain at least one of his toes would be lost before they found real shelter. Last night he'd claimed that he'd rather go by freezing than burning—now he wasn't so certain.

"I couldn't see anything. No land. No sea," he breathed, watching his breath escape his mouth in a cloud. He was going to die out here, and he'd be the first MacFusty to die by ice instead of fire. Not the ideal way to go. "And certainly no villages. I'm no good with directions, but I think I was going east. The sun was rising from that direction," he explained, rubbing his hands together in his best attempt to create warmth (if there was any left to be made.)

"I think you're right," he said, a first. "We can't go far, but we need to try each direction. If we're somewhere in Russia, it's best to go West." Unless it was Siberia. Merlin's bollocks. "And then South is our best option." Unless they were in Antarctica, which again: Merlin's bollocks.

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