The chalk danced across the blackboard with a staccato of clicks and squeaks. Each word was perfect and every character a tiny work of art. When the line was complete the teacher stepped back to examine her handiwork.
Gem rammed the letter opener through her notebook. It was open to the page she’d begun last night. A book with a single sentence.
‘Pyrrha spun, flipping her crimson mane so it swept weightlessly across her shoulder blades.’