Whistler pushed the brother into the unlit shed and without the conscious sense to save himself, Clement heard the boy drop, a lifeless bundle, to the floor. A scrape and a scratch and a snatch of burning oil in the air, and Whistler had the lamp alight.
Clement stepped into the centre of the room, forcing the girl in with him. ‘Let me go,’ she demanded, staring at her brother’s limp body. ‘If you’ve killed him, you’ll die a thousand deaths …’
Clement gave her a shove and she landed beside Drew. She gathered her brother to her, hands fluttering over his pallid face, probing his head, his chest, feeling that he still lived, and when he groaned and flinched, laying him on the floor to jump up and meet her gaolers face to face, ready to defend herself and her brother to the end if necessary
