Arya stood, covered from head to toe in mud, before the wall built from the large belly of Sister Lemoine, the stern gaze of Sister Forsyth, and the surprised face of Sister Bloom.
"How did you get out of the drawing room?!" Sister Lemoine thundered.Arya remained silent.
"Or perhaps you can disappear or be in several places at once?" Sister Lemoine asked, her eyes scanning Arya's torn uniform and muddy, wet hair with disgust. "Not a day goes by that you don't look like a pig! Where were you?!"
Arya didn't answer. "They must have seen me from the library window," she thought.
"You're not very talkative today," Sister Forsyth said dryly.
Arya looked at her and shuddered. Sister Superior had never looked at her with such cold indifference. Then, she shifted her gaze to Sister Bloom. She was holding towels, a large bar of grey soap, and a fresh, regulation uniform — a white, heavily starched shirt with long sleeves, a black dress that reached her knees, thick black tights, and black shoes with thick soles fastened with a side strap. There was no time to escape or come up with a plan. Their expressions made it clear — it was time for a bath.
"March to the bath! Scrub yourself thoroughly and wash your hair!" Sister Lemoine barked.
"Why?" Arya feigned ignorance.
"You'll have guests." Sister Lemoine hissed. "I knew it! I knew that God is slow but just! And He will finally cast His eyes here!"
"Something strange is happening here... " the girl muttered, looking down at the floor.
The nuns raised their eyebrows and glanced at each other, confused.
"No fever, but she's babbling worse than the sick ones." Sister Lemoine snorted, casting a cautious glance at Sister Forsyth. "Get to the bath! Now!"
"Something happened during the storm!" Arya cried out.
"Indeed, I believe you're right." Sister Forsyth finally moved and took a step forward. "Since you've been here, we've had a continuous series of strange events. And that's without the storm."
"It's the plague curse. I read about it once in the legends of..." Sister Bloom began, but stopped abruptly as she was nudged by Sister Lemoine's elbow.
"That's why we're so very glad to hear you'll finally have parents and leave this place," said Sister Forsyth.
"It was the aurora! There was an eye in it!" Arya cried, shrinking back from the approaching Sister Forsyth. "Please, Sister Forsyth! Don't send me away!" she pleaded, turning to the headmistress.
For the first time, Arya's gaze softened into something almost pleading, calm and desperate all at once. Sister Forsyth nearly drowned in that look. But her mind quickly reminded her of the mark—and the dreadful scenes of that morning. She bent down to the girl and spoke with cold determination:
"Three ghastly things happened today, all because of you. Do you know why? Because you are a ghastly thing. You've never wept—not once. Since the very first day, I've not seen a single tear shimmer in your eye. Not for pain, nor for joy. Whatever's inside you—I don't want to know. But I certainly won't have you here another night. While you remain, I fear opening my eyes each morning. I know you have your little hideouts, but there's one place from which no child escapes. Even with wings, you'd not fly free. It used to be a citadel… you wouldn't want to know what lies beneath the ground."
She straightened up, her voice now harsh and final.
"So off with you, to the baths! Sister Lemoine, do not take your eyes off her—not even for a moment! Rebellious child! A blight upon us! Whoever left you here was clearly guided by something dark—and wise. Lucky for them, and cursed are we! I cannot fathom how a girl can be so defiant, so utterly immune to grace! The world shall not go easy on you. Oh no, it shan't…" she finished, raising her brows in warning.
Arya said nothing. She hadn't the faintest idea what Sister Forsyth was talking about. Once again, something had happened—and once again, it was her fault. The same thought spun endlessly in her mind: Everything that's been happening is either a warning… or meaningless coincidence. She preferred the former. And so, she remained wary.
Sister Lemoine, like an obedient soldier, dragged the child along by the strap of her dress, which she had been clutching ever since Arya had crossed the threshold. Hot on her heels were Sister Bloom and Sister Forsyth. Sister Lemoine kicked open the door to the bathhouse, pushed Arya in ahead of her, walked over to one of the tubs and turned on the tap. Then she pulled up a stool beside it and laid out everything Sister Bloom had been carrying. She quickly pulled the screen across and hissed:
"You've got twenty minutes! Then you'll get dressed and I'll do your hair!"
Arya had no choice but to climb into the bath. There was only one door in the bathhouse, and that was precisely where the nuns had stationed themselves. Arya could hear their hushed voices and tried to catch their conversation, because she didn't know what the Mother Superior was blaming her for this time. Something had happened in the morning, and once again everyone seemed to think it was her fault. Arya strained to listen, but something was constantly distorting the nuns' words.
Eventually, the water began to spill over the edge of the tub. Arya ducked under the water and pulled the plug. She dropped to her knees and started scooping the water with her hands, pushing it towards the drain beneath the tub, desperate to avoid another scolding and punishment for making a mess in the bathhouse.
That was when she heard something—faint noises seeping through the drain. She stuck her head under the tub and listened. It was something like a whisper, mixed with a low hum. She lifted her head and listened for the nuns again. No… it wasn't their whispering.
"It would be wicked to foist that child on an honest family," said Sister Forsyth very quietly. "I've sent word to the Brothers of St John's Infirmary," she added, in the softest voice imaginable.
"But this is..." Sister Bloom gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, as if to stop herself from saying something too loud. "...this is a psychiatric hospital." She added in a whisper, as though speaking in code.
"And that's where she belongs! In isolation!" Sister Lemoine spat angrily, glaring at the screen behind which Arya was standing.
"Who could her parents have been?" Sister Bloom wondered, also looking at the screen.
"Maybe more like what." Sister Forsyth hissed, threw her habit over her shoulder and quickly left.Sister Lemoine and Sister Bloom listened for sounds from behind the screen. So far, they hadn't heard any splash.
"Hurry up!" Sister Lemoine called out commandingly and unkindly.
"What's going to happen to us now?" Sister Bloom whispered.
"What do you think is going to happen?" Sister Lemoine asked seriously.
"What do you mean, what? We have epidemics and hunger here! Soon they'll accuse us of witchcraft! This is all a punishment!" Sister Bloom began to sob and covered her mouth, trying not to cry too loudly.
"Shut up!" Sister Lemoine nudged her, then glanced back at the screen. "Are you going into the bath or not?"Arya quickly rose from the floor, put the necklace and the hairpin she had found into the pocket of her dress on the chair, and stepped into the bath.
"In other orphanages, corporal punishment is daily for the slightest offenses! And they don't use a wooden ruler, they use a rope or a cord!" Sister Lemoine said.
"But we punished with hunger! That's not Christian! You can't do that… " Sister Bloom sobbed.
"Maybe sometimes there were too many punishments..." Sister Lemoine muttered, her hard exterior starting to crack.
"They're going to arrest us, right?" Sister Bloom cried. "It's against God… against all the commandments… against human decency… Maybe we didn't listen enough… didn't ask enough… maybe it wasn't always her fault…"
"If it wasn't her, then who?" Sister Lemoine raised her voice slightly.
"Eventually, it will all get out. And like the blood of a wounded animal, it will attract trouble here." Sister Bloom lamented.
"Those fanatics and inquisitors... My God..." Sister Lemoine broke down a little.
"They'll accuse us of witchcraft and burn us at the stake! And if they don't, we'll be thrown out into the street!" Sister Bloom choked through sobs.
"I told you, hurry up!" Sister Lemoine snapped, stepping back a few paces to block out Bloom's lamenting. The truth was, she felt too a growing dread about what might erupt in Edinburgh if word of the orphanage's troubles got out.
The nuns fell silent. Arya reached for the soap, but immediately dropped it into the water. Her eyes widened at the sight of a black mark. She jerked upright, sending a wave sloshing over the edge of the bath.
"You'll clean all this up! I can promise you that!" Sister Lemoine screeched again.
But Arya heard only garbled mumbling, as if someone had dunked her head underwater. Her gaze was fixed on the blemish on her skin. Where had it come from? And when? She groped for the soap at the bottom of the tub and began scrubbing the mark with more soap than she'd need for her whole body. Then she rinsed. Nothing. She lathered it again. A third time. Still nothing. It was still there.
She narrowed her eyes, realising just then she had no idea what had appeared on her skin. Tilting her chin towards her left shoulder, she twisted her arm to get a better look at the shape. Her eyes widened in horror. She ducked her head under the water, trying not to scream. The same strange pattern that had appeared during the storm—the one formed by the aurora—was now imprinted on her forearm.
She stayed underwater until her lungs burned for air. Her mind was racing, a whirlwind of thoughts like a picnic basket turned upside down. Confused, overwhelmed, with no one to help her make sense of any of it.
Then she heard the click of slippers on the concrete floor.
Sister Lemoine appeared over her. Arya quickly flipped her hair over her left shoulder to hide the mark.
"You've got six minutes left! Then you're out! I don't have all day to deal with your devilish shag!"
With that, she stormed back to Sister Bloom, her heels clacking sharply against the concrete.
The outburst snapped Arya's mind awake. In no time, she soaped up her hair and washed thoroughly. She wrapped herself in towels and waited a moment for her skin to dry. Sister Lemoine, pleased with her urgency, watched Arya's brisk movements and kept glancing over as the girl got dressed in a hurry. As soon as she was ready, the nun pushed her out into the common room. There, she towel-dried Arya's hair and got ready to brush it.
"Sit!" she barked, kicking an old, worn-out chair in front of her.
If not for the direct order from Sister Forsyth, Sister Lemoine wouldn't have laid a finger on Arya's hair. Of all the children living at St. Lazarus, Arya had by far the most unruly mane. Long, thick, and twisted like springs from an old mattress, fiery red like the sun setting behind burning hills. It resisted every attempt to tame it, as if out of pure spite for anyone who tried. It grew stubbornly, like some enchanted beanstalk, curling like venomous vines. Sister Lemoine sighed deeply and grabbed a hairbrush.
She took hold of a strand near the scalp and tried to brush it. The hair puffed up furiously, and the brush jammed halfway through. She tried another. The same. A few more. The same again. She wiped the sweat from her brow, then yanked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors in fury. First, she rubbed her eyes, certain the girl's hair had somehow grown in volume just in the last few seconds.
She grabbed a thick lock at the roots and snipped.
Not a single hair fell to the floor. The scissors must've been completely blunt.
She marched over to the chest where the sewing supplies were kept and retrieved a pair of large tailor's shears. But the moment they touched the hair, the metal warped like hot glass. She tried an old razor next, which twisted up like marshmallow over a flame. It seemed, somehow, that anything trying to cut these so-called "devil's locks," as Sister Lemoine had christened them, was doomed to bend or break.
In a final fit of rage, she fetched an old pair of garden shears from the little storeroom next to the common room. She clamped the blades down on the hair, but as she tried to cut, the tool snapped in two, the central bolt shooting off like a catapult and striking her square in the forehead. The nun toppled backwards and lay there for a long moment, clutching her head.
Her mind flickered back to the times when lice infestations would sweep through the orphanage, leaving the children scratching themselves bloody. Many of the girls had their hair shorn to the scalp. Yet somehow, Arya had never caught lice from the others. Not once.
Eventually, Sister Lemoine got to her feet. Bending over Arya, she stared at the child's hair as if it had just muttered an ancient curse—and muttered under her breath:
"I don't know what's going on today, but I do know you're not staying here. And don't you dare disappear again! Do you hear me? This place is like a ship!" barked Sister Lemoine, waving a hairbrush right under Arya's nose. It was clear from the twitch in her arm she was itching to use it — and beat Arya into next week.
"A ship, I said! And that means there's only so many hiding places! Move it!" she snapped, brandishing the brush like a weapon and shoving Arya off the chair.
But Arya's mind was already elsewhere. She couldn't stop thinking about the newcomers. Strange things were happening in the Bay, and deep down she was beginning to admit to herself — she might somehow be the reason. She also worried about the disappearance of One-Ear, who hadn't shown up since bolting at the sight of that writhing bug nest in the sweet cupboard. He seemed genuinely frightened.
The sharp clack of Sister Lemoine's shoes behind her drilled into Arya's ears like nails. Unwittingly, she started to walk in rhythm with the hateful tapping. The echo of every step churned Sister Forsyth's warnings around in her head: "You don't want to know what's under the ground." What had she meant by that? Arya was certain now — the headmistress knew something. About this place... and maybe even about her.
Every time Sister Lemoine's left heel cracked a little louder, Arya squinted, lost in thought. That's when she caught a glimpse — in the windowpane, a black butterfly. Perched still as stone, just like the one she'd seen on the moss in the forest. The moment her eyes met its wings, a wave of unease swept through her. A creeping dread she couldn't explain.
She didn't even notice the heavy carved doors of Sister Forsyth's office looming ahead until she nearly walked into them. Sister Lemoine yanked her back by the strap of her dress, like a driver jerking reins on a stubborn horse. Voices spilled out from behind the door. Several of them.
Only when Sister Lemoine gave her a sharp nudge she did step inside.
The window — the one shattered by last night's storm — was patched with a thick sheet of plastic, flapping slightly with each breath of wind, ready to be ripped away by the next gust. To the right of it stood four people, surrounding Sister Forsyth. One sat in a worn-out armchair while the others stood over her — one of them listening to her chest with a stethoscope.
The woman in the chair was the same one who had come running into the orphanage the night before. She rocked back and forth slightly, murmuring the same two sentences again and again in a hollow, sing-song voice:
"Three, three, three... Always three. All things in threes are perfect."
"Is that all she says?" asked the small man, removing the stethoscope from his ears and letting it hang around his neck."Yes. She's been repeating it for hours," Sister Forsyth replied. "She's most likely unwell.""And before that?" the little man asked again."Before that, she slept. It seems something happened to her—she's lost her mind." Sister Forsyth answered plainly.
"If she were silent, I'd say classic catatonia. But she keeps repeating the same thing, obsessively. It must mean something. 'Three, three, three. Everything that comes in threes is perfect'... What is she on about..." the small man muttered, deep in thought as he paced in front of the woman rocking gently in the chair.
"Omne Trinum Perfectum," said Sister Lemoine dryly, clearly irritated by the pompous tone of the little man."That's Latin!" the man perked up, seizing the clue."Indeed it is," Sister Lemoine replied, rolling her eyes."'Everything that comes in threes is perfect'... yes, that fits... The perfect man, too, is one who thinks, speaks, and acts in harmony. She must have picked that up somewhere." He started pacing again, clearly intrigued."Maybe she was a governess. Or worked for a well-off family," he added."Or maybe," Sister Lemoine cut in with a hint of sarcasm, "she just read a lot."
Arya stared at the muttering woman, paying no attention to anyone else, her fingers brushing instinctively over the bruises on her arm left by the stranger's claw-like grip the night before. It wasn't until Sister Forsyth let out a loud, pointed ahem that Arya snapped out of her thoughts.
She shifted her gaze to the nun, who, as always, sat behind her massive desk upon a raised platform, like a scribe at some merciless trial. Arya felt like a gnome approaching the judge's bench, able to see only the movement of the fountain pen scratching away until Sister Forsyth raised her head. That moment always made Arya hold her breath. Somehow, the headmistress seemed more frightening each time she saw her. It was as if she aged by the hour. Since the previous night—when she'd shoved Arya into the storage room—she looked nearly a decade older. Her sallow face, marked with deep, elderly furrows, resembled uneven rings in a felled tree, and the heavy bags beneath her eyes gave her the exhausted countenance of someone far too acquainted with death.
Arya studied her closely.
Sister Forsyth snapped her fountain pen shut and dropped it into a tin cup. Then, with deliberate force that felt entirely unnecessary, she slammed the heavy ledger shut. Dust burst from its pages, hitting Arya square in the face and stinging her nostrils. She sneezed.
When she looked up, Sister Forsyth was staring at her, brow furrowed, like a vulture sizing up alone soul lost in the desert. Then, suddenly, the corners of her lips twitched into a faint smile. Arya tilted her head slightly to the side, like a dog listening for a command, her brow furrowed. She didn't know what to make of the nun's sudden shift in mood.
"How are you feeling?" Sister Forsyth asked, her tone laced with irony.
Arya said nothing.
"Don't you dare embarrass me," the nun hissed through clenched teeth, leaning so far over the desk that her head seemed to Arya monstrously large. Then, with theatrical composure, she stood upright, adopting the posture of someone trying very hard to appear calm and obliging.
Arya strained her ears and narrowed her eyes. Sister Forsyth nodded to the trio of strangers who had been examining the woman from the forest. Sister Lemoine closed the door behind them and positioned herself in front of it, blocking any chance Arya might have of bolting from the office.
The most elegant of the visitors—a gentleman of medium height, bald as a boiled egg on top, dressed in a finely tailored suit, with a cane and a black flat cap tucked under his right arm—swiftly took a stack of documents from Sister Forsyth. He perched a pair of shiny round spectacles on his nose and began reading briskly, glancing up at Arya every few moments, as if to compare the words on the page with the real thing standing before him.
Behind him stood a broad-shouldered, heavyset man, at least a head taller, holding a large leather bag and staring blankly at the painting behind Sister Forsyth. The third was a woman, her hair poorly pinned up, dressed as though she'd just returned from a funeral, scribbling down notes every time the bald gentleman murmured something under his breath.
It dawned on Arya then that she had been deceived. These weren't prospective adopters. They were people summoned here by Sister Forsyth—for reasons she could only guess at. She began to edge backwards toward the door, but her back met Sister Lemoine's belly, and the nun promptly shoved her forward again.
Still, Arya kept her eyes fixed on the headmistress, not the visitors—and her eyes widened. For the first time, she saw Sister Forsyth looking radiant and friendly. It was as if she had known these people forever. She gestured for them to take a seat, but they remained standing, staring at Arya as though entranced. The girl stood her ground, her face like stone, returning their gaze.
Sister Forsyth began blinking rapidly at her with one eye, urging her to curtsey in greeting, as was expected of a young lady. Arya ignored her entirely. A strange kind of rage boiled up inside her, fiercer than anything she'd ever felt. The nuns' deceit had finally tipped the balance.
"Her marks are excellent," remarked the bald man, handing the papers back to Sister Forsyth. "You say it's conjunctivitis? I don't see any redness or excessive tearing. Perhaps she really is incapable of crying." He chuckled. "Do you get headaches, child?" he asked, and the woman with the awful hairdo readied her pencil to jot something down.
"Three, three, three. Always three. Everything that comes in threes is perfect." The muttering in the background continued on and on, like a broken clock stuck on a single hour, endlessly repeating itself.
Arya said nothing, her fists clenching without her even noticing. Rage churned inside her at the hypocrisy with which she'd been lured into this trap. She felt as though any second now it would come pouring out of her ears. They were inspecting her like some exhibit and mocking her affliction. For a brief moment, it was as if her head were suspended in a vacuum. All sound vanished, the room seemed to pulse with silence, muffled and surreal. She could only see their amused expressions and the movement of their mouths.
Sister Lemoine wiped her eyes, staring at the girl. For a split second, she thought Arya's hair had flashed a menacing, blood-red glow—like fresh wounds spilling open. At the same time, the muttering woman locked eyes with her and, without warning, fell silent.
"All right then. I need to examine you," said the doctor, clicking his fingers in front of the large man behind him.
The man snapped out of his trance-like stare at the painting and placed his medical bag on the desk. The bald gentleman opened it and removed, one by one, a second stethoscope, wooden tongue depressors, two small vials filled with a clear liquid, a syringe, and two empty ampoules. He hung the stethoscope around his neck and moved toward Arya.
She immediately pressed herself against the wall near the coal stove. Sister Forsyth knew this state all too well. A shout, an outburst—any second now. Arya sensed something off, something not entirely clean in his intent, and she furrowed her brow, glaring at the approaching doctor with a look sharp enough to wound.
Sister Forsyth picked up on it straight away and began to correct her in that subtle, needling way of hers.
"Arya is celebrating her birthday today," she said, plastering on a nervous, overacted smile. "Were it not for that ever-so-lively spirit and that mischievous sparkle in her eye, I dare say there might've been a gift fit for a well-behaved little girl." She shot Arya a stern look as she spoke.
Arya responded in kind. The doctor, however, took it as a good opportunity to try and win her over a little.
"It's your birthday!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up with a smile.Arya, however, grimaced with disgust at the venomous, fake wave of sympathy."Happy birthday!" he said, nodding as though she were a clueless four-year-old. "Wishing you good health," he added, placing a strange emphasis on the latter. "Now come here. Let's have a listen to your heart." And he stretched out his hand to pull her away from the wall.
The moment Arya saw the hand moving towards her, she immediately grabbed the metal dustpan lying on the stove and struck the reaching hand. The doctor screamed and recoiled as though from fire. A woman with a notepad rushed over to him. The doctor pulled a large white handkerchief from his pocket and quickly wrapped his bleeding hand. The nuns exchanged terrified glances. Should they intervene or leave it to the hospital staff?
The doctor let out a rather Machiavellian laugh and shook his head like someone unexpectedly meeting a worthy opponent. He looked at Arya with what seemed like amused respect, but within moments all warmth drained from his face, as though one of his nerves had suddenly died. He turned to stone, no longer resembling the jovial bald man in glasses, but someone entirely devoid of mercy.
"Mr Lau," he said to his corpulent companion, leaning towards a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.
The giant must have known the cue well, for he moved towards Arya like a horse led by reins. Despite her dislike for the girl, Sister Lemoine almost leapt forward to shield her when she saw the enormous man approaching, but a furious glare from Sister Forsyth held her back at the door.
The giant grabbed Arya by the straps of her dress and yanked her from the corner in one swift motion. Arya kicked so fiercely that she struck him in the ribs just by his sternum. The brute groaned and clutched the sore spot. Arya dropped to the floor. She crawled away on all fours, veering to the right of the window to hide under the table where a mumbling woman sat in an armchair.
The doctor's assistant, with her ugly bun, soon grabbed Arya by the ankle to drag her out of hiding. Arya tried to kick her, but the woman was stronger and with almost no effort pulled her out. Then, a scream rang out.
Out of nowhere, like a rabbit from a hat, One-Ear appeared and leapt onto her. He bit her viciously on the head and brought her to her knees when he dug one claw into the white of her eye. She fell flat on her back, screaming in pain and covering her eye. The rat stood on its hind legs, hissing menacingly and baring its large front teeth. He looked like an overgrown badger.
Sister Forsyth hitched up her habit and jumped onto her desk, quickly joined by Sister Lemoine.
The arriving doctor grabbed his cane and casually approached the furious rat to strike it down with one solid blow. Arya pointed at him, and One-Ear turned, puffing his fur so violently that a collar rose around his neck like the crest of the Lernaean Hydra. The doctor froze mid-step, struck by the sight of the enraged rodent.
But his companion was not afraid of One-Ear. He crawled under the table and grabbed Arya by both ankles. One-Ear leapt onto his back and sank his teeth into him like a biscuit. The giant screamed and tried to grab him by the fur. Then Arya seized him by the forearm, and his scream tore through the air again. The nuns and the doctor, watching from a distance, could clearly see the burns appearing on his skin.
"Good heavens!" cried the doctor. "You failed to mention anything about such oddities!" he nearly shouted at Sister Forsyth.
The giant rolled onto his back in front of the office door, momentarily crushing One-Ear. The rat, however, quickly wriggled out from underneath him. The doctor, who had been clutching a syringe filled with liquid the entire time, dropped it at the sight and didn't move a muscle, staring wide-eyed at the scene unfolding before him.
The brute finally caught hold of One-Ear and hurled him onto the pile of coal next to the stove. He lunged for the syringe, then scrambled back under the table where the little girl was hiding. He was just about to jab the syringe into her leg when she kicked him square in the nose. In an instant, blood poured down his face.
Enraged, he ducked under the table and grabbed Arya by the collar of her blouse. It tore apart and the buttons flew like bullets from a gun. Arya fought back as hard as she could. The giant shook her furiously, trying to stop her from kicking and scratching. At last, he grabbed a handful of her hair and was about to slam her against the wall when the furious rodent dug its claws into his thigh.
He flailed desperately with one hand, spinning around in circles, while still clinging to Arya's hair with the other. But Arya slipped out from under his arm like an eel and bit down hard on his wrist. With a brunt, he flung her away, and Arya crashed to the floor.
From the pocket of her dress, the necklace she had found fell out, spilling a dazzling light across the room. Everyone shielded their eyes, blinded by the radiance flooding the space.
The woman leapt from her chair and snatched the glowing stone into her hands. Then she raised her eyes to the girl, who was slowly picking herself up from the floor.
Arya felt as though she were caught in a trap. For the first time, she experienced real danger and helplessness in the face of human evil. A choice remained… to accept such a cruel fate or to fight against it. But something seemed to have already made the decision for her, without her say.
Once more, a ringing filled her ears, a vacuum swept through her mind, and again she saw only the twisted expressions of fear on the faces of those in the office—but heard nothing. The only thing she felt was a mounting, untamed rage growing with every second. She had felt the sting of rejection and scorn since early childhood, but what surged within her now was unlike anything she had ever known.
Irritation, anger, rage, dissatisfaction—these were hollow words compared to the fury now rising within her. She realised that, for the first time, she was feeling something utterly true in its purest form. In that moment, she understood what hatred was—and what it tasted like. It was something without borders. It could grow endlessly, never stopping. It could strike the object of its fury and still not be satisfied. It could do anything.
And the feeling… was magnificent. A sense of power—of strength—almost superhuman. But where did it come from? Nothing was willing to answer. Yet, if such a force could awaken within her, then surely it could also be expressed outwardly.
That was when she felt a cold tingling in her hands, as if a sudden frost had frozen them in place. At first it hurt, then the pain began to fade, like a cramp slowly loosening. She looked at the brute hauling himself upright, syringe pointed in her direction. Arya didn't move a muscle.
Suddenly, her hand clenched into a fist, and she swung it back as though throwing a stone. From her palm flew a glowing orb, the size of a ripened tomato, striking him in the stomach and launching him across the room. He hit the opposite wall with such force that all the lamps and pictures fell from it, and he collapsed unconscious.
The orb of light zipped around the room a few times before shooting out through the shattered window, ripping away the makeshift barricade as it passed.
Sister Lemoine screamed in terror and fainted. Sister Forsyth caught her just in time to keep her from collapsing off the desk.
But over all of this rang out the cry of the woman from the forest, who, upon seeing Arya's mark, froze as though plunged into a catatonic state, dropping the necklace from her hands. She clutched her head and cried out:
"Homen! Homen and his Wraiths!" the woman cried, retreating towards the shattered window and pointing at Arya.
"Please calm yourself and give me your hand!" the doctor instructed the deranged woman.
"They'll kill you all! They've already passed through!" she shouted, taking a step towards the edge of the windowsill.
"Don't move!" the doctor commanded.
But her eyes remained fixed on Arya, and with grave solemnity she said:
"Whoever comes… trust no one. And never strive for anything on anyone's behalf. Never! Goodness has no price and no reward, and evil has no conscience and no punishment. You'll see! You'll see with your own eyes! All that comes in threes is perfect!"
Then she stepped back—and vanished from sight.
Arya rushed to the window. Below, the sea frothed with the foam of waves crashing against the rocks, but there was no trace of the woman. She had disappeared instantly into the depths.
On the windowsill, a large black butterfly had appeared once again.