I only spent two years as the matron of St Mark's School for Boys. I'd gone there looking for a refuge from violence, and instead I'd found more death than I could have imagined. And more kindness, too. We took the sign from the front gate with us when we moved into Groombridge, establishing some sense of continuity. "St Mark's is dead, long live St Mark's," as Rowles put it.
I was in control and I swore this time it would work, this time everyone would be safe.
I'd make sure of it.
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