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“You’re saying we were drugged?” Sarah repeats, her eyes widening with both shock, and a hint of guilty fascination, “Wow…”
“Yes, Seraphina. Drugged,” you repeat, with infinite patience, “I’d like to think that you’ll take that as a lesson not to drink whatever random wine you’re given, but I’m not hopeful.”
“First of all, rude,” she tuts, “Second of all, I seem to recall you drinking just as much as I did.”
“If you will drag me to these tedious parties, is it any wonder that I feel the need to drink?”
“I enjoyed it, actually…” Alicia says quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her slender neck still bears the faint shadows of bruising where your hands closed around her throat, but you’ve both very deliberately avoided the subject. It’s better for everyone that way, even if it does mean that she can’t bring herself to look you in the eye. You’d like to think that that might have put an end to her childish infatuation, but you fear that it achieved the opposite.
An awkward silence descends over the table as you pour yourself another cup of herbal tea. “Yeah,” Sarah murmurs after a long pause, “I guess it WAS pretty fun, even with-”
“Miss Pale?” a stern voice interrupts. You turn, seeing one of the teachers standing a wary distance away. “There’s someone here to see you,” she continues, and you immediately know who she’s talking about.
Refusal is not an option.
-
She tries to hide it, but you can feel the waves of unease rolling off the teacher. She probably doesn’t even know why she’s so afraid, merely sensing that something deeply unpleasant is about to happen. You’re sure that it would put her mind at ease if you spoke a little, babbling some meaningless words as you walk, but you hold your silence. Her fear is none of your concern.
After what seems like an eternity, the teacher leads you to a secluded meeting room. Knocking once at the door, she opens it a crack and waves for you to enter. You hesitate for a moment, fighting back a rare flicker of trepidation, and then you enter. The tall, pallid man doesn’t turn at the sound of the door, his hard eyes fixed on the far corner of the room as if gazing into something only he can see. Even as you sit opposite him, the door clicking shut behind you, his gaze doesn’t waver.
“Hello father,” you begin, the word seeming to leave a cold weight in your mouth.
He says nothing for a moment, although his eyes finally – briefly – turn your way. “Gratia,” he says simply, “I have need of you.”
Of course those are the first words he says to you. You don’t reply, studying him as you wait to see if he’ll say anything more. His face is taut and hard, etched with scars old and new. You’ve always taken pride in your ability to read people, but his expression is blank, a perfect cipher. It reveals nothing.
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