Her husband received the post. He read the letter, then tossed it onto the desk in front of her. "Your son is dead."

His voice was gruff; not cold, not mocking. It meant he was going to take action; and for once, she was not going to be the object of his assault.

The time it took her to think this was time she didn't spend reaching for the paper, time she didn't spend scanning the brief (brief?!) note. Even before she took it crisp in her fingers, even before she turned it toward her, she could see that it was brief.

A werewolf. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her visage calm. It meant that she was enduring. It meant that she would have to be pushed farther before she began to scream and fight.

A werewolf. It was almost ludicrous. What was a werewolf doing at the school?

Her son was dead.

Lavinia felt tears and found she had no will to stop them.

Her husband paced. For once, he seemed not to notice her so vulnerable.

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