Wish
her voice is hard, and Ferguson flinches.
“Bye, Ferguson,” I whisper, tauntingly, under my breath, wiggling my fingers from where my hands are at my side.
“Miss Night.” The director’s voice is cool but unamused.
I wince, muttering, “Sorry.”
She studies me until the door closes behind Ferguson, before smiling, “Tea, dear?”
I stare at her, “Um?”
“Or would you like some hot chocolate? I think hot chocolate would be better.”
Bab Populer