That's good, this would be a bit harder to do if he returned the favor.

She runs out of birch rods before her arms give out, despite the number of birch rods, and she takes a shuddering breath that sounds like the opener to a sob but can't quite get there. She doesn't let herself cry, she has work to do, she is not done.

Her husband is dragged into the tub containing the lye, and she doesn't have the heart to attempt to scrub but does recall that more of him must be washed than left dry, so despite the sting she makes sure as much of him as she can get (which is nearly all) is washed in lye. Then she hauls him into the milk, makes sure all of him's covered in that, too, and then hauls him back out and onto the neat pile of abandoned shifts she left for exactly this purpose. Shifts get bundled, she counts to make sure all of them are bundled around him, and then really can't bring herself to haul the poor thing any further and just wraps the descaled lindworm in her arms and lets herself cry.

"Sorry. I'm sorry," she whispers, voice breaking a little.