Lucy paced outside of the stone bricked room until her mother began to scream. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. “It isn’t fair. ‘Don’t rightly know how you make that out, you being a French spy and a prisoner and all. I am aware that you ran away from there, but—’ ‘Certainly I ran away,’ she said, meeting his gaze with defiance in her own. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. .
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