In the teacher's meeting room, long wooden tables had been arranged in a square, the senior professors and staff of the Athenaeum seated along its edges like jurors awaiting a verdict.
Magelights hummed overhead, casting sharp shadows across grave faces. At the far end, near the head of the table, Ruby Vaiva sat in a high-backed chair, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.
Two female professors flanked her. One had a hand on her shoulder, rubbing slow, soothing circles. The other had pulled her chair close, her body angled protectively toward the girl, her expression one of fierce maternal concern.
Ruby's face was pale. Her throat was wrapped in white bandages, stark against her skin. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her lashes clumped with the residue of tears, and every few moments she would lift her free hand to touch the bandages, as if checking that they were still there.
Around the table, professors exchanged glances. Papers rustled. Someone coughed.
