It is stuffy, isn't it? I hated this place so much when we first moved here. [She talks in the way she seems to talk to kids now, like it's some kind of secret she's sharing. But while with others it's with a degree of warmth, with this child her eyes are cold enough to snuff out every flame in this room. It's not hard to guess that she intends to kill her.

There are the screams. She can almost recognize them, or maybe all people sound the same when they're burning. They certainly smell the same.]

I don't think either of us are in the habit of asking permission.

Why did you come after us, sweetheart?