Red Eyes

The door to the west wing creaked open.

Lindiwi stopped in front of me, listening, her fingers splayed over the flaky paint. But the hoot of Sister Ruth’s organ had vanished along with the singing of the little ones, lost in the maze of corridors behind us. Even the hot, hissy wind that’d nipped at the convent tower all morning had blown itself out.

Lindiwi shot me a glance over one shoulder - half smug, half scared. Despite the heat, I shivered.

          We stepped through.

The door closed behind us on grumbly hinges.

          ‘And she wants us to clean this place?’

          ‘That’s what...

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