I fill the space with my uncertainty, with my resolve. I fill it with the tension of solitude, of old words and old remedies. The small, leather bag stares back at me from the desk. It holds more assurance than I feel, more composure than I want, more than I can be. Wolfsbane, chains, the inevitability of this night. I pretend not to notice the tremor in my fingers, not to notice the raw edges of my doubt. My thoughts scatter and pull me thin, pull me like the first breaths of a transformation. I sit, and I wait.
The words of ancient texts are heavy around me, heavy with warnings and assurances, heavy like the scent of herbs, like the weight of tonight. The leather bag holds what I need, what I think I need, what I pretend to need. My hands are deliberate and unsure, sure and deliberate
