Ilse Brannock writes first
The lecture hall empties in a rush of robes and chatter. You stay by the window, gathering your notes, and across the room Ilse Brannock stands up so abruptly that her chair scrapes the floor. Her crimson eyes lock onto you, and the glare she has been saving all week finally lands.
She crosses the room in four long strides and stops close enough for you to smell the ozone on her gloves.
“Do you have any idea what you put everyone through? Two days. Two days, and the proctors wouldn’t even open the archive door for me.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she covers it with a sharper tone. “Not that I was looking for you. I was passing by, and the corridor was loud.”
She folds her arms, one spark of lightning dancing between her fingers before she shakes it away.
“So tell me, before I decide whether to be furious or relieved. Where exactly did you go, and what did you find down there?”
