Anya's eyes lingered on Charlotte for a long moment, her smile soft but weary.
"I still don't understand you, little sister." She said, her voice carrying through the silent hall. "This could have been handled in a dozen better ways. You could have called me. You could have reported it. I would have dealt with it. But instead…"
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose with exasperation.
"…instead you go and do this. And now I'll have to explain to Aunt Yelena why her daughter won't be home for a month, and I'll have to fight with my mother over why I sent you away."
"Do you realize the mess you've made for me?"
Charlotte didn't speak. She only lowered her head, shoulders tense, as though accepting the judgment. For once, her usual fire was swallowed by silence.
Seeing that she wasn't willing to speak, Anya gave another sigh and straightened her glasses, about to say—"Come on then, let's go and deal with this mess properly."—when a sharp voice cut through the tension.
