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of Gaspard long before he could make himself understood by the new prisoner.
    He paced the common wall restlessly, running his hands over the solid surface. If only there was some way to communicate! He wanted to howl with frustration.
    He dropped to the floor, his back against the common wall, fighting the temptation to bang his head against the stone. And heard a voice, soft and low and regular. He froze, wondering if he really was losing his mind.
    No! The sound came from the sewer hole in the corner of his cell. With rising excitement, he knelt beside it and listened. Yes! The words were clear now. Latin. A prayer? The cell next to him must have a similar hole that joined with his and allowed wastes to fall into some subterranean hole.
    Frantic with hope, he called, “Monsieur! Monsieur, can you hear me?”
    The Latin stopped and a soft, cultured voice said in French, “I can. You are another prisoner?”
    “Yes! In the next cell!” Grey swallowed hard, fearing he might dissolve into tears. “My name is Grey Sommers and I’m English. I’ve been here over two years. Who are you?”
    “Laurent Saville. I’m called Père Laurent.”
    Father Lawrence? “You’re a priest?”
    “I am.” A note of dryness entered the calm voice. “My crime has been to love God more than the emperor. And you?”
    “Durand …” Grey hesitated, uncomfortable with admitting his sins to a priest. But priests were supposed to be forgiving, weren’t they? “Durand found me with his wife.”
    “And you live?” Laurent said in amazement.
    “He thought death too merciful.” Grey’s words tumbled over each other. “Tell me about yourself. Where are you from? Where have you studied, what subjects do you know? Please, talk, anything!” Fists clenched, he forced himself to stop. “I’m sorry. It has been so long since I’ve had a normal conversation with another man.”
    The low chuckle was deeply soothing. “I was born and raised near here. We will have all the time we need, I’m sure. Tell me what life is like in Durand’s dungeon.”
    The priest was right. They had plenty of time to talk. Till one of them died.
    Though Grey valued the occasional exchanges with the servants, having a regular companion made a huge difference. And he couldn’t have done better than Père Laurent, who was kind and wise and learned, and as willing to share his knowledge as Grey was to learn it. Sometimes they sang together.
    The food improved, too. Grey guessed that someone up in the kitchen was a good Catholic who thought a priest deserved to eat decently, and Grey benefited by that.
    Laurent was older, his health more fragile. One terrible winter, he seemed on the verge of dying from lung fever. That was when Grey learned to pray.
    Father Laurent survived. And together, they kept each other sane.
     
     

Chapter 9
     
     
    France, 1813
     
     
    Since the guard and prisoners weren’t known to be ill, Madame Bertin provided a hearty sausage stew rather than broth. Carrying three meals, Cassie carefully descended the treacherous stone steps. She didn’t want to break her neck when she was so close to an answer.
    The stairs ended in a short corridor with a door at the other end. A locked door. Since her hands weren’t free, Cassie kicked the door. “Monsieur? I have your dinner!”
    A key rattled in the lock and the door was opened swiftly by a burly man. “Come in, come in! I was wondering if I’d been forgotten.” Getting a look at her, he said suspiciously, “I don’t know you.”
    “Everyone else is ill with the influenza so I’m helping out,” Cassie explained. “Shall I put the tray on your table?”
    The guard nodded and stepped back, relaxing when he saw that his visitor seemed to be a fragile old lady. “Gaspard will be back soon, but we’re under orders to never leave the prisoners unguarded, so I couldn’t come up to the kitchen.”
    It said much for Durand’s temper that he was obeyed even when he was a hundred miles