Blythe Pritchard waited patiently before The Book. Usually sweetly cool and light-filled, these familiar hallways suddenly felt oppressively silent and cold. There was no other way, she told herself. No other way. Unconsciously, she sighed. A thud sounded from the other side of a nearby wall. A muffled and indignant ‘ow’ reached Blythe’s ears. The next thing she heard was “Ow, Blythe, ow!”, followed by a whoop of happy laughter, stamping feet and hands slapping walls. She rolled her eyes and called out loudly, “Didn’t I tell you to take the hallway? You’d have been in a nice little mess if it’d happened while you were travelling through a wall.” A door to her right flicked open and into view slid Domenic Mancini. He jumped and spun, turning round and round like a little child in a non-existent puddle. “Domenic Mancini! For goodness sakes, behave yourself.”
