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Gaze slicing to the right and back, he frowns. “Why do you keep going to his cell?”

For a moment, I wonder if he can feel the tremble still pulsing beneath my skin, can see the flush of my cheeks when he asks about him, but I shake my head. “He’s wounded. I’m just looking after his stitches.”

“I have to get you out of here.” Voice lowered to a whisper, he rests his forehead against the hole and sticks his fingers through, which I thread into mine.

For some inexplicable reason, I glance to Titus’s cell and back.

“I have to find a way for the two of us.”

“Shhh. Don’t talk about that right now.” I squeeze his fingers, urgent for him to clip his tongue, or the guard will hear. “Tell me about Grant. How was he, after my trial?”

“He’s Grant. He keeps to himself. Though …”

“What?”

Brows tight, he looks away, seeming to gather his thoughts. “He’s been spending quite some time with Jack.”

“And? Jack has been like a father to us. I’m grateful he’s given Grant his time.”

“You know I never cared for him much.”

I do know that. The feeling was mutual, too, as Jack often liked to poke fun at Will’s lack of interest in Legion. Every young boy dreamed of becoming a Legion soldier someday, and the fact that Will didn’t made him an outcast.

“I promise you’ll see Grant again. With every fiber of my being, I will get you out of here and back home to your family.”

I appreciate his conviction, but his words are futile. “Even if I wanted to, even if I could escape this place, Szolen will never let me back in.”

“Not you, maybe. But me. I could get you inside.”

“How?”

“Telling them I retrieved you from marauders. They’d arrange another transport to the convent, but in the meantime, you’d be confined to your home.”

A very slight possibility, all dependent on whether, or not, I can spring him from this cell. “I’ll work on it. I promise you. I’ll try to find a way out. Here, I brought you something.” I slip the ash bread through the small window, and my heart aches on seeing him scarf the small scrap of food as if he hasn’t eaten in days. Eyes focused on the slow-healing knot at his eye, I huff. “Are you feeling--”

“Ma’am. I think it’s time you better go.” At the sound of Tom’s voice, I turn to find him stood with his arms crossed at the entrance, and give a nod.

When I pass him, a hand clutches my shoulder, and the guard stares down at me, eyes brimming with a warning. “Spend too much time down here, and folks will start to get curious. Nosy.”

It’s a friendly warning, confirmed when he gives a tight-lipped nod, and releases me.

“I’ll be careful. Thank you.”

As I head back toward my cell, the sounds of shouts and laughter draw my attention to the guards out in the yard. Curious, I tiptoe toward the ruckus, stepping just outside the front entrance, and find them scrambling for something on the ground. Stones.

They chuck the rocks into the air, and I follow the path of each throw to a crevice in the building. Unable to see what’s inside, I step out, careful to keep my distance from them, while the next man hurls a rock.

“What is it?” I lean toward one of the guard’s I recognize from my transport here, but the moment the question tumbles past my lips, an object falls from the crevice, landing to the ground.

“Son of a bitch, you hit it!” one of the men shouts, and bellows of laughter follow.

Ignoring the cheers of the men, I focus my attention on the creature hopping along. A small wren, whose wing is now clearly broken.

“Oh, my God.” Keeping an eye out for another throw, I scamper toward the animal and step carefully around it, so as not to frighten the poor bird. Mindful of the wounds on my back that I don’t want to disrupt, I kneel at its side, hands outstretched, while I visualize how I’ll go about picking it up. With a small bit of hesitation, I scoop the small wren into my palms, careful not to further crush its wings. Perhaps it’s only the shock of the injury that keeps the bird from fending me off, but aside from just a few small pecks at my finger, she sits trembling in my palms as I lift her from the ground.

On passing the assholes who hit her, my glare is met with chuckles and snorts. “Savages,” I mutter, carrying the bird inside the prison, and catch a strange stare from one of the guards on the way in. Most ignore me, but something in his stare is unnerving, and I keep my focus on the bird.

Once back at my cell, I settle onto the cot with the first aid kit Tom retrieved the day before, one I held onto because I have a feeling that this place breeds injury.