sanctuary | on hold indefinitely

sixteen | verba habeo dicere

The windows rattled aggressively against the wind. Devan winced at the sound, her ears sensitive against the terrible racket. Her eyes were gritty and dry from her lack of sleep, but every other part of her body was alert, waiting—for what, she didn't know. 

Surprisingly, she was not haunted by her nightmares, but rather the letter her father had sent her. The feeling of someone—him, who had abandoned her—knowing exactly where she was and using her circumstance to contact her made her skin crawl. Your own fault, she scolded herself not for the first time since waking up this morning, pacing the small length of the cabin, her heavy feet scuffing the wood. Shouldn't have asked for his help.

Even with the letter burnt, the small pile of ashes watched her from the floor. She disrupted them with a swipe of her hand and without thinking anymore about it, rolled up her sleeping bag and shoved her spare clothes into her backpack.

Outside, the wind howled, causing the rowan twigs to knock relentlessly against the door like an unwanted visitor. She sighed in irritation, standing up and throwing the door open. It swung on its hinges against the gale, smacking into the rotting walls with a pained groan. She pulled the twigs off their string, throwing them onto the floor and stamping on them so that they snapped under her boots and sunk into the damp soil. Then, remembering why they had been there in the first place, she came to a halt, her chest heaving as her hair whipped across her face. The bitterly cold wind stung her cheeks and caused her eyes to water as she picked up the now snapped twigs and sighed.

She couldn't just leave, no matter how much she wished it.

Her shoulders falling, she stepped back into the cabin and slammed the door behind her. Her notepad and pencil were on the table where she had left them; she had spent the morning debating whether or not to respond to her father. She picked the pencil up confidently now, hunching over the table. Her fingertips were red and numb where the cold had already reached them, and she pressed so hard into the paper as she wrote that she was afraid she might break the lead.

Greer,

I need to see you as soon as possible.

Devan Lee.

Greer had left her a small hematite stone with the rest of her herbs on the table in front of her. Devan cupped it in her palm, crumpling the note and holding it in her other hand. Her eyes falling shut, she began to chant.

"Mittite,

fac madidas videat,

haec sunt verba habeo dicere."

Send this message,

let her see,

the words I have to say are these.

The paper turned to dust in her hand, its remains slipping through the fingers of her clenched fist and covering the table like sand. She blew away the grains and began to write again, this time with none of the hesitation she had this morning.

Musa,

I will pay you back for all your help when I am able to. Until then, it is safer for both of us if you do not try to contact me again.

Devanshi.

She screwed the paper into a ball and repeated the chant before she could change her mind, the tension drifting from her body when the letter disappeared. Mechanically, she stood and retrieved the old broom from the corner of the cabin, sweeping away all that remained of her words. Her bag remained half-packed on the floor, clothes strewn on top of it, and she stared at the messy heap of her belongings numbly for a moment before the sound of pencil scratching against paper caused her to turn.

Words were appearing on her notepad, this time an unfamiliar hand in dainty, overlapping letters that were wide as though someone had squashed them on the page.

Tomorrow, first thing. Please don't contact me this way again. It isn't safe. - Greer

Devan exhaled—whether with a sigh of relief or impatience, she hadn't yet decided. All she knew was that her instincts were telling her to run, and only Greer Reid could help her do that.