"Madara's further orders will be delivered to you by owl," Lucius said to Walburga.
Then he turned and headed deeper into the entrance hall. Old Nott followed behind him, with Greengrass bringing up the rear. Walburga stood in the middle of the hall, her cane planted before her, watching the three figures vanish at the end of the corridor. Her face showed no expression, but the knuckles of the hand gripping her cane had turned white.
The door closed.
Mety the House-Elf emerged from the shadows, holding a thick wool shawl in her hands. Walburga did not take it. She merely stood there, staring at the closed door. The fire in the fireplace burned quietly, casting her shadow across the wall and stretching it long, like a shadow slowly being drawn out, one that might break at any moment.
In the corridor, the footsteps of the three men echoed over the empty stone floor.
Lucius walked in front, neither hurried nor slow, but every step landed firmly. Old Nott walked at his side, half a beat slower, yet his rhythm was as steady as a wound clock that needed no adjustment. Greengrass walked last, his gaze constantly observing—observing the decorations on the walls, the curve of the ceiling, the rise and fall of Lucius's shoulders as he walked, and Old Nott's habit of lightly rubbing the corner of his robes between the fingers of his right hand.
"Walburga is still hesitating." Old Nott's voice came from ahead, low and deep like distant thunder.
Lucius did not turn around. "She isn't hesitating. She just can't get over that hurdle."
"What hurdle?" Greengrass's steps paused slightly before he caught up again.
"The Blacks," Lucius said. "She is a Black. The Black Family has never bowed its head to anyone. Her grandfather, her