The headmistress’s office always had a way of making you feel like you were trespassing into something bigger than yourself. It had a way of making you feel small.The walls were paneled with dark oak, heavy and oppressive, polished until they reflected the light of the chandelier overhead. A faint smell of lemon polish and stale tea hung in the air. The desk—mahogany, broad, intimidating—dominated the room, while plush chairs lined up before it, like a courtroom awaiting its judge.Headmistress Amalia Greyfield sat behind that desk, a woman carved from stone and discipline, with her gray hair pulled into a bun so severe it seemed to tug at the lines of her face. She didn’t move much, didn’t need to—her stillness was command enough.In other words, she was scary as fuck.I sat there, stiff in my chair, trying not to shrink, though every eye in the room pressed down on me like weights.To my left was Aisha, back rigid, her jaw set in that way that told me she was seconds away from sn
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