The corridors of Havenwood smelled of dry timber, faint lye soap, and the cold draft sweeping through the floor from the lower cellars.
Down at the end of the second-floor hallway, ten-year-old Toby stood face-first against the post of the stair railing, his small hands slapped over his eyes as he counted aloud into the empty wood.
"...sixteen! Seventeen! Eighteen!"
"Hurry!" Libby whispered furiously, her small fingers tugging hard at the hem of Philia's sleeve.
She scurried down the narrow passageway on her bare feet, her little shadow bouncing against the lime-washed walls under the sunlight streaming through the high, curtainless windows. Philia followed right behind her, his boots making almost no sound as he matched her quick, frantic pace.
His torso were throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache, but he kept his posture relaxed, forcing a soft, quiet smile every time Libby shot a panicked look over her shoulder.
