Burke bit down harder. Heedless of the pain and sweat and knotting muscles, he forced himself to thrust his wrists down so the flame could play upon the cords.
In seconds, the stench of searing flesh and burned cloth blotted out the chamber's odor. Eyes squeezed tight shut as if to shut out the agony, cursing beneath his breath, Burke strained to keep his bonds taut and in the right position.
Then, when it seemed that he could stand the pain no longer, a cord snapped like a clipped wire. Another followed.
The next instant, Burke's wrists were free.
Sobbing soundlessly, he batted out the lighter, to save what fuel remained.
After that, the job became routine—a matter of stripping loose ends of cord from his wrists; working his fingers till circulation was restored; untying his ankles.
The burns still hurt; and, he knew the pain would be even worse later on. What to do about it, though—that was something else again.
In any case, he needed light.
Rising, once more he flicked on the lighter.
Mostly, it revealed emptiness and shadow. But there was a lamp-stand over to one side, so Burke made his way to it and lighted the lamp.