14
GRAYSON
Two weeks have passed since coming to Wulfhelm. It feels like a million years, especially in this particular spot.
A great meeting hall towers around me. Long oak tables line the floor, all of them flanked by benches. Thin windows peep out from the stone walls. The glass panels are all covered in grime. Cobwebs dangle from the arched ceiling. Dust covers everything.
My students sit on either side of a table. I pace around as they write their letters. Snowball rests by Hiriah’s feet.
Nervous energy hangs in the air. No question why, either. My girls hate dressing in human-style. It’s been days of cajoling, bribing, and scolding. At last, my girls wear dresses that fit. Their hair is washed and brushed. Sadly, every inch of neatness requires some extreme drama. The lesson on
