Questioning could take a while and with no prisoner to guard, Beatrid was put on patrol on the interim. It was an uneventful time, and most of it was spent wondering over the fate of her criminal as she marched through the streets, keeping an eye out for suspicious activity. Normally, she wouldn't care; she was used to dealing with unsympathetic people, and she'd convicted many mages over the course of her career. Some had even been condemned, she she'd stood by that decision, even testified against them, and she slept just as well after the execution, secure in the knowledge that she'd done the right thing.
But this man was not a monster, and she didn't believe he was faking it. A man who was faking it didn't surrender at the risk of their own life, or protect the person trying to arrest them even when they had the opportunity to slip away. And at this point, he had nothing to gain through insincerity, but everything to lose through honesty.
Reporting back in to her captain as daylight faded to night, another Mordecai replaced her and she was dismissed. Time to check back in at the prison and see how things had gone--or wait around some more if they hadn't finished. Her feet were sore and she felt a little more tired than usual--a reminder of her injury--but sleep could wait a bit longer. It wasn't long before she reached the prison and, with a word to the guard, was handed a torch and ushered inside.
Rats scurried away from the light as she walked down the cell block and, when she reached his cell, she placed the torch into a sconce on the wall and peered inside.
He was back, all right. And he had a bloody, puffy face to show for it.
"Looks like things went well for ya," she remarked, arms crossed over her chest.