Rachel stepped into Headmistress Orla's office, her hands trembling at her sides. The heavy wooden door closed behind her with a soft but final click—loud enough to echo in her bones.
Orla sat behind her wide mahogany desk, quill poised above parchment. The lamplight cast warm shadows across her stern, ageless face. A faint scent of old books and lavender filled the air, a contrast to the cold dread twisting in Rachel's stomach.
The headmistress did not look up immediately.
That was somehow worse.
Rachel stood silently, fingers clenched so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
After several suffocating seconds, Orla finally lifted her eyes.
Calm. Steady. Sharp.
"Rachel Voss," she began, voice cool but not angry.
"Do you know why you are here?"
Rachel swallowed.
Her voice cracked.
"Yes, Headmistress."
"State it."
Rachel took a shaky breath.
"Because… I was staying in a room that wasn't mine. Even though you told me not to."
Orla's gaze did not soften.
"Correct."
