The walls of the classroom were painted a pristine eggshell white, the kind of clean that made her feel like her very presence might scuff it up. High arched windows lined one wall, letting in streams of golden sunlight that danced across the polished wooden floors. The desks were small, delicate things, with carved legs and cushioned seats—so unlike the rough-hewn benches she'd grown up sitting on.
At the far end of the room, Professor Ligarius sat with the rigid poise of a statue.
His chair was positioned beside the grand windows, where he could command a view of both the room and the school's sprawling grounds outside. His sharp gray eyes were flicking between the pocket watch he held and the scene beyond the glass.
Every so often, he sighed, the sound faint but audible in the otherwise hushed room.
Q couldn't decide if his silence was worse than his scolding.
