Guilt was a powerful thing. Jacopo had learned that when he’d first committed. He’d also learned the proportion of prisoners who reoffend – more than half – and had determined, early into his sentence, that he would not be among them. No amount of money was worth the potential price of freedom. Nothing which could be gained from selling the secrets of the Divine Scribes – the short-term adrenaline rush or the wealth which never seemed to last long either – was worth even a month in a windowless cell of iron and concrete, cut off from society and sunlight. Jacopo had spent five years in there.
The high proportion of reoffenders is born not from a criminal’s inability to change their nature, but from an unwillingness from society to help them change. Jacopo emerged from five years in the system to find his home repossessed, his employment record permanently tarnished, and his debts unmanageable. His ‘fresh start’ saw him homeless, friendless, unemployable, and stuck in a deep cycle of poverty. Such circumstances are not uncommon for former prisoners; reoffending is often the only choice many have left.
Alone in his cell, with his head in his hands and his back against the cold, stone wall, Jacopo didn’t see it that way. All he could see was the prince’s cold, accusing stare, and the grim faces of the castle guards. It was a unique look, the one which all people reserved for criminals. It couldn’t be explained, except perhaps by the emotions which prompted it: pity, disgust and superiority, usually.
None of those emotions were detectable in Birch’s face when she stormed through the door into what Jacopo’s former cellmates in Etna had referred to do as the ‘treachery pen’. Anger was all that was visible. Jacopo, who had looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, had a single-emotion expression too: panic.
“Birch,” he choked, but didn’t get any more out. Her voice was as low as distant thunder.
The long-term residency trip he had been placed on immediately prior to the kidnapping had kept him away from her for several months. Now, the cost of that lost time was only too evident. Jacopo’s throat constricted and his world momentarily shut down as he clapped eyes on Birch’s figure, now distinctly rounder than it had been when they’d last met. Deaf to her words, he froze. He didn’t doubt her fidelity, not for a second – she was the best of people – which meant… which could only mean…
Later, when his brain started working again, Jacopo would be convinced that the situation could not get any worse. When he found his voice at last, some minutes later, it was hoarse and hollow, and heavy with guilt.
“I know it is never going to be enough to say I’m sorry, but that’s all I can do from in here.” He rested his forehead against his palm, the elbow for which was leaning against his knee. “I’m sorry I did it. I’m sorry I involved you. I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you, and I’m sorry I didn’t ask for help.”
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