"Grelod runs this orphanage because she's old, and set in her ways, and doesn't know any other life. The children need love and comfort."
The room was splattered with blood.
And the children were cheering.
Her blood was roaring in her ears and her heart pumped faster than it ever had in her life; her palms were slick with sweat, and her eyes darted in terror about the room. Whoever had done this—were they still here?
"Children!" she cried, trying to bring some semblance of order. They all looked at her, terrible grins on their faces, and Constance had to wonder if there was something just a little wrong with them in that they weren't the least bit scared by what they saw—the opposite. It was a frightful thought.
"Back to your beds, now," she commanded them, and they obediently moved away. "Did any of you see anyone entering or leaving?"
Four 'no's sounded and Constance sighed, resting her hand on her dagger, muscles tensing. Her eyes darted here and there, looking for any possible hiding place a killer might have in this orphanage. They might well have only been after Grelod—but one couldn't be too careful.
Swallowing her rising bile, Constance drew her dagger. "Stay here," she told the children, trying to keep her voice reasonably steady. "If you see anyone—anything—don't hesitate to scream." The children all nodded, and she darted into the hallway.
A careful search turned up nothing. After fifteen minutes, Constance was convinced the killer had left. Still shaking, she sheathed her dagger, and then stumbled back into the storeroom and over to Grelod's body.
Whoever had killed her had done a messy job of it, and a brutal one at that. The blood would take an age to clean from the walls, and Grelod herself was near to mutilated. It would have been kinder to just slit her throat.
But Grelod had never been very kind herself, had she? There was, as much as Constance hated to admit it, some… twisted poetic justice in it.
And the children, they were safe now. They didn't have to worry about Grelod again. Never again.
Why, though? Grelod was old, very old. She would have died in a few years, anyway. Why this? Why hasten the ways of nature, and why do it so brutally? Why do it at all? How twisted did a person have to be to do this? Even if Grelod had been an awful woman, how awful in turn did a person have to be to carry out such an action? Just how?
Constance decided she didn't want to know.