Godric and Fuller snapped to attention when their matron
threw open the door they’d been guarding. She stalked down the hallway like an
angry ghost, and the twins had to run to catch up to her; they had to trot in
order to keep up with her stride once they were beside her.
“Miss Sithe!” Fuller cried. “What is it? What did you find
out?”
“Matron?”
Sithe stopped, as though she’d been struck by something
invisible, and snapped her head back with a look that could have frozen
sunlight. Both boys went stock-still, and superstitious chills ran down their
spines. They would realize later, upon reflection, that they’d never seen such
anger in their caretaker before. The worst they’d seen was a blank-slate mask.
This was alien. This was savage.
“Go to bed,” she said, in a hissing whisper. “Both of you. I’m
handling this myself.”
Neither of the good matron’s usual accomplices had the
temerity to disobey. They looked at each other, they looked at her, then they
bowed their heads and disappeared.
How Sithe managed to make it through the common room, where
all the younger children were sleeping in tiny clusters, without waking any of
them was a mystery for the ages. She wove her way through the night like a
ballroom dancer, betraying a natural grace that couldn’t be lost even in the
throes of a hellish fury.
Sithe swept outside, around the building, and lifted up the
huge iron ring that served as a handle for the door leading into the storm
cellar. She vanished inside. By the time she reemerged, somehow clad in an even
darker outfit than before, she didn’t so much walk as glide.
The matron, now a specter of death, vanished into the
darkness of the city.
Before she even realized it had happened, Sithe was no
longer alone.
The grim, hulking mass of Sythius Sil’nathin had joined her.
