Joshua was down here somewhere. Had they hurt him? Tortured him? Please, not that. She’d seen the haunted look in his eyes when they’d been separated. The helplessness. The fear. Maybe even regret. When she and the guards reached the bottom of the stairs, three crude cells awaited her, all set in a row. The floor of each was covered in straw and two buckets sat in opposite corners, one full of water. The other was probably the toilet. Joshua was in the middle cell. ‘Briar!’ he called out, managing to roll worry, relief and joy into that one word. ‘I want to be in with him,’ she said. ‘Please.’ ‘One cell it is,’ the jailer said. He clanked the door closed behind her and locked it with an immense key. Neither she nor Joshua spoke until the guards were gone, just staring at each other as if they’d been apart for years. ‘Please tell me no one hurt you,’ he said, his face drawn and haggard.
