Sister Lemoine glided down the corridor, her nostrils flaring with rapid, indignant snorts. She was as furious as a hornet whose nest had been shaken. With every distant rumble of thunder, swelling into an ominous roar, she flinched, shielding her eyes with one hand. She loathed the sight of the storm churning behind the tall, soaring windows. A tempest was approaching.
Suddenly, one of the windows let out a strained creak, as though it might buckle under the force of the gusting wind, which was whistling ever louder. The wind was soon joined by a sudden, heavy downpour, draping the world in a dull, dismal curtain of rain. Sister Lemoine, sweating profusely, alternated between panting and dabbing at her damp forehead with the sleeve of her habit. The clatter of her ugly leather heels against the stone floor was so loud that the youngest children scurried beneath their beds in fright.
St. Lazarus Orphanage was run by nuns. It was not a particularly warm or welcoming place, though this was not merely the fault of the fickle weather on Scotland's north-eastern coast. Such places were always overcrowded, and there were never enough hands to share the work. Strict discipline reigned here, and punishment for disobedience was commonplace. One child in particular drove Sister Lemoine to the brink of madness. Not a day passed without her making the journey to Sister Superior Forsyth's quarters to lodge yet another complaint about a certain red-haired girl.
"Sister Forsyth! Again! Again, in the middle of my lesson! That's the sixth habit this month! That child is the embodiment of evil!"
"But..."
"You saw it with your own eyes last week, Sister! She set fire to my habit with her bare hands! If that isn't reason enough to send her away, then what is? She is a spawn of the devil!" Sister Lemoine cried, thrusting the scorched fabric before the Sister Superior's face, the hole in the cloth eerily shaped like a small child's hand.
"And what, pray, do you expect me to do with her?" Sister Forsyth spread her hands in weary exasperation.
"Send her away!" Sister Lemoine's voice teetered on hysteria.
"Where?!"
"Anywhere!"
"The orphanages and workhouses are overflowing! No one wants another mouth to feed. Poverty and destitution prowl the streets, and the number of orphans grows by the day. Only yesterday, I received a telegram—an admiralty ship returning from India was lost to the storm. They're sending us five more children!" Sister Forsyth pressed her fingers to her temples and shook her head. "We have no more room…"
"Since that child arrived, we've had no spring, no summer! It's the middle of May, yet the rains are endless, like an October that never ends! And don't tell me it's nothing but the whims of the climate—Aberdeen is by the sea!"
"There has never been spring or summer here! They told me as much when I was assigned to this place. No one knows why, but this stretch of the coast has always been shunned by the sun. It is simply the nature of things."
"A cursed nature. And it did not arise from nothing!" Sister Lemoine snapped. "In twelve years, I have not seen a single clear day here. Nowhere else in this world does a man feel such a cold shiver down his spine, such unease and helplessness as he does here, when those sudden, unnatural storms break. How can it be that there is but one place in the entire country, cloaked forever in mist and tormented by tempests?!" She raised her voice.
"As we say here," Sister Forsyth muttered darkly, "if you don't like the weather, wait a minute."
She always said that whenever Sister Lemoine came to her with complaints. And yet, the latter could never understand the Sister Superior's indifference to her warnings. At times, Sister Forsyth seemed absent, as though her thoughts wandered far beyond Aberdeen.
Placing one's faith in time was no wisdom at all in such a grim place. Waiting a minute, as the Scottish proverb advised, changed nothing. Instead, new afflictions continued to arise—each one tied to Arya, the girl who filled Sister Lemoine with unspeakable dread.
Saint Lazarus stood far from the city, perched upon the steep cliffs of Cove Bay, its foundations mere inches from the relentless grasp of the North Sea. The orphanage had once been a citadel, built in the early days of "the empire upon which the sun never sets," yet it had endured as such for little more than a decade. After that, it was repurposed—turned into a refuge for the parentless. The passing centuries had reaped their toll in the form of civil wars and pestilence, and many places met a similar fate. The number of orphans never ceased to grow.
To be abandoned or illegitimate in eighteenth-century England was to be marked by hardship.
Sister Lemoine could not shake the feeling that the telegram and the ever-swelling ranks of the orphanage were not the only burdens weighing upon the Sister Superior. She was always a grave and pensive woman, shut away in her office—but today, something was different.
She was troubled. Deeply.
A glint of paper caught Sister Lemoine's eye—the sharp edge of a folded newspaper, barely visible beneath the sleeve of the Sister Superior's habit.
"And what, pray,
Saint Lazarus stood far from the city, perched upon the steep cliffs of Cove Bay, its foundations mere inches from the relentless grasp of the North Sea. The orphanage had once been a citadel, built in the early days of "the empire upon which the sun never sets," yet it had endured as such for little more than a decade. After that, it was repurposed—turned into a refuge for the parentless. The passing centuries had reaped their toll in the form of civil wars and pestilence, and many places met a similar fate. The number of orphans never ceased to grow.
To be abandoned or illegitimate in eighteenth-century England was to be marked by hardship.
Sister Lemoine could not shake the feeling that the telegram and the ever-swelling ranks of the orphanage were not the only burdens weighing upon the Sister Superior. She was always a grave and pensive woman, shut away in her office—but today, something was different.
She was troubled. Deeply.
A glint of paper caught Sister Lemoine's eye—the sharp edge of a folded newspaper, barely visible beneath the sleeve of the Sister Superior's habit.
"And what, pray, has Sister been reading today?" she asked.
Sister Forsyth lifted her gaze to meet Lemoine's and slowly revealed what she had been concealing. Upon the desk lay the morning newspaper, its front page dominated by a foreboding headline:
"The Reincarnation of Trithemius."
Beneath it, against the backdrop of a blazing pyre, stood a local magistrate—renowned for his zealous persecution of those accused of witchcraft and for presiding over the most infamous trials of the past decade, trials that had claimed the lives of hundreds.
Sister Lemoine snatched up the paper in an instant, her fingers crumpling its edges as she seethed with fury.
"Who still listens to that deranged cleric? That blasphemer! That fool! That… that—"
"Scoundrel," Sister Forsyth finished for her, rising from her desk.
She moved towards the tall, arched window, her eyes fixed upon the black cloud massing over the sea.
"If word of our troubles with Arya were to reach anyone—especially that lunatic—our misfortunes would far surpass the mere absence of spring and summer."
"I thought the witch hunts would come to an end..." Sister Lemoine sighed.
"They will not end so long as fanatics like Spall have a voice. The Great Hunts in France, the burning pyres in Germany, the persecutions in Switzerland, the blindness and ignorance in the Netherlands, the madness in America. And here as well. In five days, another trial in Edinburgh—ten accused of witchcraft, including two children. And charlatans like Spall," Forsyth's voice sharpened. "They will judge them. Do you understand what that means?"
"More senseless deaths," Sister Lemoine murmured, casting the newspaper onto the pile of coal beside the small stove against the wall.
Sister Forsyth lifted her gaze to meet Lemoine's and slowly revealed what she had been concealing. Upon the desk lay the morning newspaper, its front page dominated by a foreboding headline:
"The Reincarnation of Trithemius."
Beneath it, against the backdrop of a blazing pyre, stood a local magistrate—renowned for his zealous persecution of those accused of witchcraft and for presiding over the most infamous trials of the past decade, trials that had claimed the lives of hundreds.
Sister Lemoine snatched up the paper in an instant, her fingers crumpling its edges as she seethed with fury.
"Who still listens to that deranged cleric? That blasphemer! That fool! That… that—"
"Scoundrel," Sister Forsyth finished for her, rising from her desk.
She moved towards the tall, arched window, her eyes fixed upon the black cloud massing over the sea.
"If word of our troubles with Arya were to reach anyone—especially that lunatic, as you called him—our misfortunes would far surpass the mere absence of spring and summer."
"I thought the witch hunts would come to an end..." Sister Lemoine sighed.
"They will not end so long as fanatics like Spall have a voice. The Great Hunts in France, the burning pyres in Germany, the persecutions in Switzerland, the blindness and ignorance in the Netherlands, the madness in America. And here as well. In five days, another trial in Edinburgh—ten accused of witchcraft, including two children. And charlatans like Spall," Forsyth's voice sharpened. "They will judge them. Do you understand what that means?"
"More senseless deaths," Sister Lemoine murmured, casting the newspaper onto the pile of coal beside the small stove against the wall.
"That foolish man, blinded by delusions and ignorance, is welcomed in every court. The Papal court... the palaces of bishops... Catholic courts... Protestant ones... the castles of feudal lords. The arcane knowledge from old tomes, according to the likes of him, is the purest form of science—more important than reason itself. I had thought that natural sciences would cast this superstition of witchcraft into the dustbin of history, but... it seems not..."
"If all those fanatics knew how many of their accused were hidden within these orphanage walls—and in many places like ours—they would have long since burned every nun in the country at the stake."
"The last poor harvest and these storms over Cove, in the eyes of the rabble, are nothing but the result of sorcery. I fear it will not be long before we once again find ourselves sheltering the condemned in these underground chambers."
At that moment, from the blackened clouds, a wide, luminous bolt of lightning struck the churning waters of the North Sea. The deafening crack resounded through the air, which seemed to tremble in response.
"A word spoken at the wrong hour may prove prophetic," Sister Lemoine murmured, crossing herself hastily before rushing out of the Mother Superior's office.
By the time lunch break had come and gone, Sister Lemoine had managed to compose herself. Now she was once more dashing through the corridor, the sharp clatter of her shoes echoing obnoxiously as she hurried to lead her Latin lesson. By the time she reached the third floor, she was utterly exhausted—her ample figure proving to be a cruel burden.
From the far end of the corridor, Sister Lemoine could already hear the sounds of a commotion coming from the classroom designated for mathematics lessons—where she also taught Latin. For a moment, she listened, but when a loud scream from one of the girls pierced through into the hallway, she broke into a run.
As she reached the doorway, she was so out of breath that she had no air left in her lungs to bellow over the chaos. In the middle of the classroom, two girls were locked in a fierce struggle, clutching at each other's heads and yanking at handfuls of hair. The rest of the children had retreated towards the back of the room, their frightened eyes fixed on the brawl.
"Sister Lemoine! Arya threatened Susan yesterday!" one of the girls cried out, pointing an accusing finger at the red-haired girl, who appeared to be gaining the upper hand.
"Stop this at once!" Sister Lemoine bellowed, striding forward.
Her words went unheeded. The girls continued to grapple, oblivious to her presence.
Sister Lemoine rolled up the sleeves of her habit to her elbows and seized each girl by the wide straps of their black dresses. She met with unexpected resistance—she had not anticipated such ferocity from twelve-year-old children. She wrestled with them for a long moment before finally forcing herself between them, standing firm like an unyielding barrier.
- What are you doing?! What is the meaning of this?!
- She started it! - cried the black-haired girl, her hair cut short to her neck.
- Arya, what do you have to say for yourself?
- Nothing. - the red-haired girl said defiantly.
- Don't lie! Last night at supper, you laughed at my hair! And today, you said they would all fall out!
- Don't shout, Susan. Just tell me how Arya laughed at you.
- She said my hair was so ugly that it would soon be crawling with tangles! And that she would cut it off in my sleep with scissors!
- Why did you say that?
- Because she laughed at mine. And then she threw apple peels at me.
- Susan! - Sister Lemoine turned her heavy gaze to the black-haired girl.
- It's not true! She's lying! Besides, she's a freak! She's always scaring us with something!
- Arya! - this time, the nun's furious eyes fell on the red-haired girl.
The girl remained silent.
- She always plays her silly tricks when no one is watching! But everyone knows it's her!
- Don't accuse without proof, Susan! - Sister Lemoine warned, wagging her finger at her.
- She's a witch! - Susan screamed, pointing at Arya.
Sister Lemoine's mouth fell open in astonishment. It seemed that at last, someone had dared to say out loud what everyone had secretly thought. The rest of the class quickly followed the black-haired girl's lead. All the girls chanted the word "Witch", their sharp eyes piercing Arya. Yet she did not so much as blink.
Sister Lemoine grabbed the metre-long wooden ruler by the blackboard and began slapping it against her palm. That meant punishment. The noise stopped at once, and each of the chanting girls received a single strike on their open hands. Only Arya and Susan refused to hold out their hands for punishment.
"And what are you two waiting for?!" - Sister Lemoine called out angrily.
"Why should I be punished when I did nothing wrong?" - Susan protested.
"Hold out your hands!"
"No!"
"Very well. Your punishment will come after lessons. And I promise you, it will last much longer than a single stroke of the ruler! Now sit down!"
The lesson was on noun declensions. Sister Lemoine kept their minds occupied with the challenging topic, and when the clock struck three, she forbade them from leaving for recess and ordered a surprise test on the flora and fauna of Europe. Next came mathematics, where she immediately assigned them a rather difficult geometry problem. Then, settling herself at the lectern, she began marking their Latin quizzes. Silence fell over the classroom like a heavy shroud, broken only by the occasional weary sighs and the scratching of pencils against paper.
Sister Lemoine lifted her gaze, sweeping it across the room. Only one pencil moved without pause. Arya was steadily working through the problem, seemingly close to finishing. Narrowing her eyes, the nun scrutinised the desk where Arya sat, from the floor to the surface. Surely she isn't cheating… she thought before returning to her marking.
Then came the noise. A sharp, sudden thud against one of the tall windows. Sister Lemoine flinched, irritation flashing across her face. The class turned as one towards the glass. Birds had always met their deaths against the orphanage's vast windows, but the past few quiet days had made them forget. Now, another impact echoed through the room. Another bird. Another death.
All eyes turned towards the back of the classroom. All but Arya's. She remained unmoved, indifferent. And then, as if summoned by something unseen, she rose from her seat, walked to the front of the class, and placed her completed work upon Sister Lemoine's desk. The nun glanced down at it, lips pressing together in disapproval.
"Write it on the board." she ordered, pulling a box of chalk from the drawer and handing it to Arya.
Susan watched with burning resentment as Arya moved to the blackboard and began writing out her answer. With a frustrated sigh, she scratched at her head with her pencil.
And then the pencil… stuck.
Susan tugged. It wouldn't budge. She pulled harder. It wrenched free—but something felt wrong. Her fingers brushed against her scalp and found something unnatural: tangled clumps, matted knots where there should have been smooth hair. And then, looking at her hand—
A mass of black strands.
Her breath hitched. She shot to her feet, her fingers raking desperately through her hair, finding more—more knots, more tangles, more loose strands. The floor around her became a dark halo of fallen locks. Her scream shattered the silence.
"I told you! She's a witch! She's cursed me! Look at me, Sister, look!"
Tears streaked her face as she thrust her trembling hands forward, palms open, full of the evidence of her horror.
"Stay here and don't move!" Sister Lemoine threatened Arya before turning to Susan.
At that moment, another impact shook the window. The third bird struck with such force that a massive spiderweb of cracks spread across the glass. One more hit, and the window would shatter completely.
"Come with me!" she said to Susan, grabbing her by the sleeve of her white shirt.
The entire class froze, watching Arya with wide-eyed terror. But after a moment, their gazes slowly dropped back to their notebooks. Sister Forsyth arrived to take over the lesson. As punishment, the entire class was served only a small portion of watery porridge and a cup of chamomile tea for supper.
Sister Lemoine struggled until midnight with Susan's hair. Even three washes did nothing to untangle the growing knots—if anything, they only stripped away more of her hair. In the end, there was no choice but to cut it all off at the scalp. Susan's wailing echoed through the second-floor hallways until three in the morning.
The next day, during the first lesson—nature studies with Sister Bloom—Susan's desk remained empty. The other girls eyed the vacant seat with silent dread, then shifted their fearful gazes to Arya, who sat behind it, intently sketching the layered structure of a forest as assigned.
Lizzie Allen, who had always been Susan's most devoted ally in tormenting Arya, glared at her with open hostility. By the middle of the lesson, she began hurling paper balls at Arya's desk. Each time Arya brushed them aside, more appeared, raining down in a relentless barrage.
By the end of the forty-minute lesson, a sizable mound had gathered around her. Sister Bloom, unimpressed, took away Arya's break and ordered her to clean the entire room. Arya obeyed without a word of protest, sweeping the floor in silence.
The girls returned from their break, carrying with them a chorus of chatter and laughter. A moment later, Sister Lemoine entered, holding a small parcel wrapped in paper. She placed it on the writing desk with a dull thud.
"Your order. It just arrived."
Sister Bloom quickly unwrapped it, her eyes lighting up as she beheld a beautifully bound, weighty tome.
"Botany?" Sister Lemoine peered over her shoulder. "Are you planning to build a greenhouse in the garden?"
"Don't you think it would be useful?"
"And do you think anyone will actually tend to it? Besides you, of course."
Sister Bloom had already begun leafing through the book, but the growing noise in the classroom made it impossible to concentrate.
"Silence! Open your desks and take out your geography textbooks!" she snapped, though only a handful of pupils obeyed.
"And you—back to your seat!" she barked at Arya, who sat perched on the windowsill, her back turned to them all.
"Are you deaf, the lot of you?! Sit down and take out your textbooks!" Sister Lemoine's voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding.
At once, the girls scrambled into their seats.
The nuns' faces soon vanished from sight, buried in the thick, fresh-smelling pages of the heavy book.
Suddenly, a piercing scream tore through the classroom.
From Lizzie Allen's desk, a massive, wild-looking black spider with long, hairy legs crawled out and tumbled onto her lap. She shrieked, flung it off, and leapt onto the chair of the girl beside her. Within moments, the entire class resembled a young thicket—every girl had scrambled onto her seat, shrieking at the top of her lungs as they watched the creature skitter across the floor. The spider scurried toward the teacher's desk.
Sister Bloom, moving with unnatural speed, clambered onto the desk, frantically reaching out to pull Sister Lemoine up beside her. But Sister Lemoine struggled to even lift one foot onto the surface, let alone detach the other from the floor. As the disoriented beast scuttled mere inches from her shoes, she dragged a chair toward the window, grasped the curtain, and, with considerable effort, hauled her sixty-pound frame onto the bald wooden seat, then onto the windowsill.
The spider had nowhere left to flee. It darted from desk to desk, only to be met with such ear-splitting shrieks that it reeled like a cornered animal.
Then, Arya moved.
With feline agility, she slipped down from the windowsill and strode toward the back of the room. She retrieved an empty chalk box from the shelf and approached the teacher's desk, where the spider had paused as if contemplating its next move.
She knelt before it, eyes locked onto the great, hairy creature.
The spider twitched its front pedipalps, as if testing the air, then cautiously shifted its foremost legs, taking a hesitant step forward.
Sister Lemoine crossed herself in horror.
The other girls watched, frozen, barely daring to breathe.
Arya remained perfectly still. Then, as though entranced, the spider obediently crept into the box and fell motionless, settling within as if it had chosen the place itself.
Lifting the box, Arya walked between the rows of desks. This, of course, set off another chorus of terrified wails.
She reached the farthest window, placed the box upon the sill, and opened the casement.
Carefully, she extended the box outside, just beneath the thick tangle of clematis vines that clung to the orphanage's eastern wall, overlooking the vast, overgrown garden.
The spider tested the air with one leg, then hooked it onto the coiled stems. With effortless grace, it hoisted itself onto the vines and vanished beneath the dense foliage. Arya watched as it moved swiftly down into the shadows of the old, neglected garden.
Once it was gone from sight, she closed the window, crossed the classroom, and came to stand before Sister Lemoine.
"Noise can either startle them or enrage them," she said calmly. "It's best not to scream."
"Enough of this!" Sister Lemoine hissed, struggling to climb down from the windowsill onto the chair, then onto the floor.
She adjusted her habit and wiped her forehead before storming towards Arya in fury. She grabbed the girl firmly by the wrist and yanked her along.
"You're like a plague!" she spat through clenched teeth. "A little witch!"
She flung the classroom door open and dragged Arya down the long corridor. By the time they reached the first floor near the dining hall, the girl had already realized what was coming. She started struggling, trying to free her arm from the nun's grip.
"No! No! I don't want to!" Arya thrashed, her voice trembling.
"Oh, I'll teach you some discipline!" Sister Lemoine snarled, tightening her grip and pulling her harder toward the kitchen. "You are the worst creature that has ever been brought here! In all my years, I have never seen a child as ugly, unpleasant, ungrateful, and spiteful as you!"
Her nails dug into Arya's skin as she dragged her forward. "I've never met a child who doesn't know how to cry! You haven't shed a single tear since birth! I will never forget the night I first looked into that basket you were left in. Not a scream, not a tear! Pure evil!"
Arya dug her heels into the floor, but it did little to slow the nun's furious pace. Desperately, she reached out with her free hand, grabbing anything she could—curtains, the cords of gas lamps along the walls, furniture, paintings, door handles of passing rooms. It was all in vain. Even the mess left in their wake did nothing to slow Sister Lemoine's relentless march.
"It's not my fault! Why are you punishing me?!" Arya shouted, digging her nails into the nun's arm, but the thick habit protected her from such attacks.
At last, they arrived at their destination. The nun shoved open the old kitchen door and practically threw Arya inside. The girl barely managed to keep her balance and avoid falling.
"You'll spend your afternoon break here! Forget about books and the common room!" the nun snapped.
"Why?" Arya asked, narrowing her eyes dangerously.
"Because I say so!"
"Why?!" The girl raised her voice.
"Do not raise your voice at me, Arya!"
"Why?! Why?! Why?!" she screamed, grabbing onto the nun's habit.
Sister Lemoine struggled to push her away. Only with the help of the cooks and the other servants did they manage to pry the furious child off.
But then, Sister Lemoine noticed something she had overlooked in the classroom. On Arya's white shirt, just below her right shoulder, were a few tiny drops of blood. The fabric, however, had no tears—only a few misbuttoned buttons at the collar. It looked as if she had scratched herself too hard in that spot. The nun's eyes widened in alarm at the thought of an outbreak of scabies or some other contagious disease. She glared at the girl even more menacingly.
"When she's done, lock her in the dark cell! And no supper! Only water!"
"No!" Arya shouted, her face turning red with fury.
"Oh yes, indeed!" Sister Lemoine said triumphantly. "I'm not the only one who's had enough of you! The other children hate you too! Yes, Arya, I know very well what you do to those who laugh at you. I know about Susann Follows' ruined notebooks, about the mouse droppings in Sara Nicholas' hair, and now the giant spider in Lizzie Allen's desk! I pray for the day someone finally takes you away from here!" she spat through gritted teeth and stormed out of the kitchen.
The housekeeper holding Arya by the scruff, a fat, sweaty woman who reeked of garlic and old grease—Mrs. Brahe—dragged the girl to the darkest and filthiest corner of the room. There, she set her before a high sink, which reached up to Arya's chin, stacked with a towering pile of greasy, soot-covered pots, nearly touching the ceiling. The girl stared at it, transfixed, half-expecting it to collapse on her head at any moment. It was clear the pile had been accumulating for days, maybe even weeks.
"What are you waiting for?" the heavyset cook grunted, shoving a rickety wooden stool toward her.
"Get up and scrub!" she bellowed.
Arya climbed onto the stool and began sorting through the greasy pans and kettles.
"And make sure you do it properly!" the cook growled again, tossing two battered scouring pads into the sink.
The girl bravely fought against the fate that had befallen her, but after several minutes, the skin on her hands began to wrinkle, and the water in the sink turned into a murky soup. All the while, she kept a watchful eye on Mrs. Brahe, who stomped around the kitchen, terrorising the entire staff and never letting Arya out of her sight.
Then, an old friend came to her aid.
As she scrubbed a soup cauldron nearly as tall as she was, Arya caught sight of a long snout and a moist nose peeking out from between the mugs on the shelf above the sink. It was a massive rat, the colour of tortoiseshell, so plump that it resembled a well-fed cat more than a rodent.
Their first encounter had taken place four years earlier when Arya had been made to stand in the corner as punishment during Sister Lemoine's lesson for failing to memorise her multiplication tables. Even long after the lesson had ended, she had been forced to remain there—her only companion was this very rat.
His most distinctive feature was the absence of fur over almost half of his head—a scarred strip of skin stretching from his nose, across the left side of his face, and past his ear, as if from a severe and extensive burn. Arya suspected that Mrs. Brahe was responsible. She imagined the cruel woman catching him stealing food in the kitchen and dousing him with hot oil, which only deepened Arya's hatred for her.
The only somewhat amusing consequence of the incident was that the rat's ears were completely asymmetrical. The healthy one bore three colours, while the burned one was hairless, slightly shrivelled, and stiff.
"Come, One-Ear" she whispered, stretching her hand out to the massive rodent.
"What are you looking for?! I gave you everything!" Mrs. Brahe bellowed, stomping furiously toward Arya.
She lunged at the sink and yanked the girl roughly by the arm.
"Let me go!" Arya shouted, grabbing One-Ear by the scruff of his neck with her free hand.
A moment later, the rat landed squarely on the head of the wretched cook.
Mrs. Brahe let out such an ear-splitting screech that the windowpanes creaked as if a storm of sand had struck them. She spun in circles, desperately clawing at her hair, trying to shake the rat off. But before she could throw him off herself, One-Ear leapt down on his own and darted onto Arya's shoulder, burrowing into her wild, curly mane. Together, they watched as Mrs. Brahe continued her frenzied dance, tearing at her own hair despite the rat being long gone.
In her blind panic, she stumbled into the pile of unwashed pots, knocking one loose. It crashed straight onto her head. Under its weight, she dropped onto the floor at once, wailing at the top of her lungs:
"Help! Get it off me!!!"
The entire kitchen staff rushed to the aid of their ringleader.
"A toad in a helmet! Run for your life" Arya cried and leapt off the stool.
Practically crawling, sliding across the grey stone kitchen floor like a labyrinth, she swiftly darted between rows of cupboards and shelves, following the scampering One-Ear ahead of her. Both of them dodged grasping hands that reached for them from above and between the furniture.
The rat knew every nook and cranny to slip through, and Arya followed him as though he were her most trusted guide.
As soon as they made it out of the kitchen, they dashed like the wind down the corridor towards the bathhouse. Arya immediately ran to the mirror and unbuttoned her shirt. She examined her forearm closely. There was no trace of any wound.
One-Ear sat on the washbasin, squeaking anxiously.
"What's wrong with you?" Arya asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
The rat stood on its hind legs and began sniffing the air. Its whiskers quivered like a divining rod when it finds an underground spring. After a moment, something startled it, and it darted away as if it had been pushed off the sink. Arya called after it, but it didn't return.
Suddenly, the room darkened. Black clouds had once again gathered over the coast. Through the windows, she could see the treetops swaying eerily in the wind, their branches clattering against the panes. A tapping sound reached her ears—it was the rain, now lashing in from the sea, drumming harder and harder against the glass. A moment later, a flash of lightning split the sky, followed by a thunderclap so heavy it made all the lights flicker out. Only one lamp by the door continued to flicker convulsively, as if refusing to go out. Arya froze and held her breath.
Outside the window, an unnaturally quick streak of sharp blue-green-violet light flickered. She had seen a similar glow the night before when she had woken after midnight to a searing pain and burning sensation in her forearm. A murmur rose in the corridors—most likely, lessons had been interrupted, and the nuns were now escorting everyone back to the dormitories. Since yesterday, the storm had been brewing. Thunder had rumbled ominously from Shetland through to late afternoon, and now the gale was stirring the sea, while the storm howled through the trees and lashed the rain like a whip.
Arya ran out of the bathroom and hurried down the corridor. She slowed as she approached Sister Forsyth's office. A beam of light spilled onto the floor, forming a cone-shaped glow in the hallway. Arya tiptoed closer and slipped behind the heavy curtain of one of the windows. Peeking out with one eye, she glanced through the slightly open door into the head nun's office. Sister Forsyth was pulling on a large, old cloak, while Sister Lemoine held up a gas lamp to help her see the buttons.
"The children have already reached the quay. I'll pick them up and be back in an hour, if this storm doesn't stop us. God help us!" Sister Forsyth crossed herself.
"God help us!" Sister Lemoine repeated after her and crossed herself twice. "Drive this storm away, or we'll never get rid of this hellish creature! Does she know someone will take her tomorrow?"
"No, and let it stay that way! I don't want her to hide somewhere again or cause trouble in their presence! Have you destroyed that thing?"
"Uhm... "Sister Lemoine muttered uncertainly and lowered her gaze.
"What's going on?" Sister Forsyth asked.
"We tried."
"And?"
"It... it... didn't burn..." Sister Lemoine stammered.
"How didn't it burn? It's made of wood!" Sister Forsyth exclaimed.
"This morning, it was still in the hearth, covered with ash. I don't want to know what's inside it."
"Maybe it's time to open it."
"Sister Bloom tried. Even with an axe." Sister Lemoine said in a trembling voice.
"And what happened?"
"The axe got blunt. I'm telling you, send that child away! Don't you see all these bad omens?! What more has to happen for us to get rid of her?!
Suddenly, a huge branch crashed through one of the windows in Sister Forsyth's office. A cold wind blew in, tearing everything off the desk and howling loudly. The paintings on the walls flew off like silk scarves, shattering on the floor. The books on the shelves trembled, pushed by the wind, until several of them fell with a crash and shared the fate of the pictures. The hurricane became more and more aggressive. After a moment, it tore the right curtain completely off and spun the chandelier so hard that it flickered with its last strength. Sister Lemoine pulled Sister Forsyth against the wall, fearing that the old ironwork might fall on their heads with the next gust. From the bell tower in the Clock Tower in the western wing came the loud sound of the bell ringing. It was the superstitious Sister Bloom who always rang it during a storm. It was believed that the sound of the bells dispersed the clouds and drove away the weather spirits, the demons responsible for storms and hail.
Sister Lemoine stood with wide eyes, staring at the broken window, while Sister Forsyth, holding her hat so it wouldn't fly off, listened to the ominous whistle of the wind. After a moment, they both ran out into the corridor and disappeared down the stairs leading below. Arya heard the key turning in the lock. She rushed to the head nun's office door. It didn't budge. The nuns were hiding something. Arya was sure that the thing was hers, the one she had "brought" here. Suddenly, the sound of breaking glass echoed down the corridor, and every gas lamp on the wall was showered with sparks, after which it grew as dark as night.
In the darkness, there was suddenly the crack of shutters being thrown open violently. The hurricane, gaining momentum, slammed the shutters in the dining hall with a bang. A terrible gust of wind surged through the corridor and pushed Arya into the window curtain. She grabbed it to steady herself. When the worst of the first blow dispersed through the upper floors, she entered the dining hall. Outside, it brightened. A great lightning bolt tore across the sky. A band of violet-green light crawled from beyond the horizon, faintly resembling the northern lights. However, there couldn't be any aurora here, as the polar night only occurs in the second half of the year.
The open shutters slammed loudly against the walls, losing more and more pieces of glass. In the darkness, interrupted by lightning flashes on the horizon, the open shutters gaped with eerie dread. Arya couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching her from all sides. A pain shot through her forearm. She grabbed it, trying to massage away the cramp spreading through it. A sense of the unnatural poured from the room. Everyone had suddenly fled, in a hurry. The tables were in disarray. The wind had scattered dishes and food across the floor and walls. Stains from drinks and food dotted the area like black holes across the ground. A few broken ink pots lay on the floor in splashes of ink. It was the aftermath of those who, having been freed from part of their lessons, were catching up on work while eating. On the floor, under the cabinets with dishes, there were numerous broken plates, mugs, and glasses.
The lamp in the ceiling creaked ominously, brushed by the wind pushing through the corridor. The aurora in the distance seemed to move and shift closer to the Bay. Arya's ears caught something that sounded like a whisper mixed with hissing, followed by a crack, as if something had suddenly broken. She ran out into the corridor. It was flooded with darkness and an ominous silence. Again, something crunched... then a second time... and it went quiet. Arya listened intently. A barely audible hissing came from the baths. Moments later, One-Ear shot out from there like a slingshot and sped by like a ghost. Arya called to him, but he ran ahead, frantic. Around the corner of the corridor, something crunched again. A cold shiver ran down Arya's spine as she heard heavy breathing. She sprang into a run, almost as quickly as her rat had shot down the corridor.
She reached the huge atrium and threw herself at the heavy oak front doors. She grabbed the massive brass handle and, nearly swinging on it, pulled it down. When the old, stubborn lock finally gave way and the door creaked open with a terrible screech, she slithered through it like a snake and quickly closed it behind her. No sooner had she turned around than she collided face-first with the large belly of Sister Lemoine. She immediately hauled her inside.