Hyleigh was laying on her bed, propped on her elbows with ankles crossed and legs swinging as she listened to Sultana Dreaming on the table orchestrion and re-read Augustine’s letters. As she reached for a berry from the bowl next to her, she froze, then looked up suddenly.
“Oh, seven hells,” she whispered with wide eyes.
She hopped up and rushed to the living room and the desk. Grabbing a piece of parchment, she began writing.
“You needn’t fear for my life. I am in no danger of hurting myself. ‘Tis true that I have unresolved trauma, and I still suffer the effects of a bad reaction to an alchemical concoction, but if things ever get bad enough for me to consider self-harm I know to seek help. A week in the infirmary and I’ll be all right. I’ve always admitted myself when my mind can’t handle life. It’s a habit I don’t plan on breaking.”
She pursed her lips together in thought, looking down at the page. She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but surely he should know this. Should she hold onto it and wait until she found more to say? He’d already waited two years. But shouldn’t he know she’s alive? And that she intended to stay that way? She tapped the quill’s feather against the desk, still looking for the answer.
Yes. She needed to tell him this. She folded the parchment and placed it in an envelope, addressed it to Augustine Goode. She had no address for him, but the delivery moogles could find anyone.
She collected her riding cloak, draped it around her, and fastened it at her neck. She’d need to take the chocobo to Hyrstmill, where the nearest delivery moogle was.