three | rules

58 11 17
                                    

The gruff voice of Greer's grandfather rang through the shop as she resurfaced from the beads in the corridor's entrance, and immediately dread pooled in her stomach like cold water. She weaved between the aisles, hiding herself between the bookshelves so that she could eavesdrop on his conversation with Shyla and prolong the inevitable.

"—no dark magic here. I've told you enough times. I don't want them anywhere near my shop, let alone in it, with you providing them cups of tea and biscuits. It's not difficult, is it, Bowers? Or is it me? Am I speaking bloody Japanese when I tell you how I want my shop run?"

Shyla's voice was meek as he replied, "No, sir."

Greer rolled her eyes and stepped out of the aisle in an attempt to save her friend from any more of her grandfather's rants. At the sound of her footsteps on the old, creaking floorboards, Lennox turned around, one arm leaning against the counter while the other sat firmly on his hip. His face was unshaven, his stubble grey and straggly on his chin, and there were purple bags beneath his eyes. Greer wasn't the only one who hadn't slept last night, then.

"Grandfather," she said, feigning surprise as she collected her apron and tied it around her waist. "I wasn't expecting to see you today."

"Well, I wasn't expecting to see a bloody dark witch coming out of the back entrance of my shop today, but the world is full of surprises, isn't it, madam?" His glasses were perched low on his nose and he peered over the lenses, his thick eyebrows furrowed disapprovingly.

"She wasn't Dark," Greer said, fidgeting with the books she had been meaning to stack earlier. "She was half-Healer. And she needed my help."

"I bet she bloody-well did!" He placed a wrinkled hand over hers, preventing her from distracting herself. She sighed, looking up at him with pursed lips. "Listen here, madam. I'll only say this once more. There will be no dark witches in my shop, and there will certainly be no Split half-castes here. This is not a bloody rehabilitation centre for the impure and misunderstood. This is a bookshop. I let you do whatever else it is you want to do on the basis that you follow my rules. Is that clear?"

Greer shook her head at his ignorance. "Don't you think I'm old enough to decide for myself who is worthy of my help?"

He scoffed mockingly. "Well, you would think so, wouldn't you?"

"Sir," Shyla interjected, raising a hand as though asking for permission to speak, "with all due respect, I was—"

"Look, I asked her to leave when I saw that she was Dark," Greer interrupted quickly, knowing that Shyla would get into twice as much trouble if her grandfather knew that he was the one who had let Devan in, particularly since he was also Split and also the subject of the old man's prejudices—and perhaps one of the reasons why Shyla chose to wear an eye-patch to cover his incongruous green eye. "But then I spoke to her. I'm not happy about helping her, but she seems like she needs it, and that's exactly why I do what I do. You didn't talk to her. You don't know."

"I know enough to know that you won't be helping her."

"Grandfather—" Greer began to plead, but she was cut off before she could even begin.

"No, Greer." His voice had risen, his face a lined mask etched from stone. "You will not help her or any other Dark or impure witch that tries to come through those doors. If you even think about it, you won't step foot in here again. I don't care if you're my granddaughter. If you can't abide by my rules, you won't work here at all. Is that clear?"

Greer sighed, nodding in submission. "Yes," she whispered. "It's clear."

His glance turned to Shyla. "And you," he pointed, his lips curling upwards in contempt. "Don't think that stupid bloody pirate's patch on your eye will make me forget what you are. I let you work here because my granddaughter trusts you, but if I find out you're letting anymore of your kind into my shop, you'll be unemployed, too. I'd watch your step, if I were you, Bowers."

"Yes, sir." Shyla lowered his eyes as though he was a child that had been scolded. The sight of it caused bile to rise in Greer's throat. She hated the way her grandfather treated people, but hated even more the way that he treated her best friend. It wasn't right, and no amount of his lectures would make her think it was.

"Good. I'd like last month's finance reports, if you will."

Shyla shuffled through a stack of papers in a folder beneath the till for a moment. Greer couldn't help but notice that his fingers were trembling as he pulled one out and handed it to Lennox. A familiar wave of guilt rolled over her. 

Lennox glanced down at the papers for only a moment before nodding. His chubby, tensed fingers had already crumpled them at the corners. "Unless you need me for anything else, I'll be off."

"No," Greer said quickly. "Everything's in order here."

"I should hope so, madam, for your sake."

With that, her grandfather left, papers still in hand. The bell above the door cut through the silence he had left as he stepped out onto the street, his hunched figure passing by the window before disappearing altogether.

Shyla opened his mouth to speak, but Greer got there before him. "Why did you let her in? Even without seeing her eyes, it was clear she was Dark—or at least trouble."

Shyla shook his head, his visible eye glazing over. "I suppose I forgot that your help is reserved for those that appear good and pure. I thought it was for anyone who needed it."

"Shyla," she said softly, apologetically. "You know the rules."

"I also know that if I wasn't your friend, if I turned up on your doorstep and your grandfather found out, he would ask you not to help me, either." His voice was sharp, and he stepped out from behind the counter with a stiff posture. He suddenly looked much taller than Greer. "Is that alright with you?"

"No, it's not alright with me, but what do you suggest I do?" She slammed her hands down on the counter angrily, having had quite enough of today and all that it had brought with it. "My grandfather has the power to take all of this away from us. Is that what you want?"

"I want you to stand up to him. I want you to do what's right. I want to feel like someone will defend people like me when we need it." He ran a hand through his short, brown hair in frustration. "I thought that could be you, but you just stand there, Greer. You just stand there and you let him treat everyone like they're nothing."

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do." Her voice was small. She began to pace to distract herself.

Shyla sighed. "You're supposed to be a Protector. You're too weak. You're ... You're just like the rest of them."

She stopped, unable to prevent the tears welling in her eyes. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair." Shyla ripped off his apron and threw it down on a stack of books. His fingers were still shaking. "I'm going on my break."

A customer was entering as he pushed past her without apology. Greer could do nothing but watch him go, unable to greet the elderly woman as she muttered something about young people with no manners.

She glanced at the clock. It wasn't even noon, yet, and already she wished this day would be over.

sanctuary | on hold indefinitelyWhere stories live. Discover now