Page 61 of Where The Devil Kneels

Grandma’s blueprints cover the desk. Silas hunches over them, finger tracing paths only he knows. He’s still a wreck — breathing rough, face white under fresh bandages — but his eyes are burning. He knows exactly what to do.

“We need to activate the primary defence network first,” he explains, voice steady despite the pain I know each word costs him. “Your grandmother maintained the mechanical systems religiously, but they’ll need manual initiation after years of sitting untouched.”

When he looks up at me, there’s something beyond determination in his gaze, a question, perhaps, or the shadow of doubt.

“Are you certain about this, Elara? Once we start, Garrow will know exactly who he’s dealing with. There’s no going back to normal after this.”

“Normal died the moment I found bloodstains in my foyer,” I reply, already moving toward the door. “Show me where to start.”

He moves through the house like it’s his own body, like he’s got a map tattooed on the inside of his eyelids. Room to room, he's talking, and I'm doing the hands-on work since his hands are all bandaged up. In the dining room, the fancy one nobody ever actually eats in, I reach behind the flower carvings on the wall panel. The lever slides exactly where he said it would. Deep in the walls: click-click-whirr.

“Pressure plates activated in the east lawn,” Silas murmurs with satisfaction. “Anyone crossing that section will find the ground suddenly unstable beneath their feet.”

In the morning room, he points to the Dickens on the shelf — the one I’ve always liked the look of but never read. “Pull it toward you, not out.” When I do, the spine clicks. Something hums deep in the walls. Another trap set.

“The false windows in the east wing,” he explains. “They appear as easy entry points but trigger alarm systems when breached.”

I reach past him for the panel behind the hall mirror and our hands bump. My whole body goes electric. His fingers are cool, steady despite everything. I let the touch last a beat longer than I need to. Weird how something that small can feel like an anchor.

We zigzag through the house, him pointing and me activating. Panels behind paintings. Drawers with false bottoms. Bookshelves that aren’t bookshelves. With each click, I feel less like I’m fumbling. The house hums back at us — trembles underfoot, mechanical whispers in the walls, air moving through vents I never knew existed.

“The basement next,” Silas says, leading me toward a door I’ve rarely used since inheriting the property. “The water defence systems are our most effective deterrent.”

The stairs go down into dark our flashlights barely dent. Cold air rises to meet us, smelling of earth and stone. Silas falters here, one hand on the wall, his injuries finally showing.

I grab his arm as he stumbles, my fingers digging into his sleeve. “Stop. You’re bleeding through the bandages.” Blood seeps dark against the white gauze. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “You’ll kill yourself before Garrow even gets the chance.”

His eyes narrow against a wave of pain, but he waves off my concern. “This is nothing,” he says, voice strained. “Your grandmother designed it this way—the house needs both of us. Two keys for every lock. Two hands for every lever. She made sure no one person could ever control everything.”

The basement opens into a series of chambers. In the largest, copper and brass pipes web across the ceiling and walls, all feeding into massive cisterns sunk into the stone floor. A rainwater collection system, Silas explains — daily use and emergency defence both.

“Your grandmother insisted on maintaining this system even after the house was connected to municipal water,” he says, a hint of admiration colouring his voice. “Most people thought it was unconventional. Few understood its true purpose.”

We work the valves together, his hands guiding mine through the maze of pipes. Some mechanisms need both our strength, forcing our fingers to overlap on rusted wheels.

“Now the passages,” Silas says once the water system is primed. “We need to secure some access points while leaving others available for our own use.”

He leads me to what appears to be a solid stone wall, pressing against a specific stone that gives way under his touch. The wall slides back with surprising silence, revealing a narrow passage barely wide enough for a single person.

“Watch your step,” he warns. “The floor isn’t even through this section.”

The passage snaps shut behind us, and we’re swallowed by darkness except for our bobbing flashlight beams. The air in here isn’t what I expected, not that musty, abandoned smell, but something alive, moving around us in little currents that whisper of hidden air vents somewhere. And then I see it, all the little touches that scream someone’s been living here. Books stacked on a makeshift shelf. A blanket tucked into a nook. Tools hanging from hooks, each one exactly where a hand could find it in the dark.

“You’ve lived here,” I whisper, the reality of his existence suddenly concrete in these small, human touches.

“When necessary,” he acknowledges, continuing forward without elaboration.

We thread through the hidden arteries of the house, passages connecting rooms that seem miles apart above ground. Silas moves confidently, one hand trailing the wall, breathing shallow. Down here the house lives differently. Pipes vibrate under my fingers. Air moves through vents. I start anticipating the turns before we reach them.

I reach for a lever before Silas even points it out. “You’re learning quickly,” he observes, something like approval warming his usually guarded voice. “That’s good. The more familiar you become with these mechanisms, the faster we can secure the estate.”

We pop out into rooms, slam windows, jam chairs under doorknobs, and duck back into the walls. I stop trailing after him and start working with him. Before he points, I’m already moving. When I need something to wedge a window shut, his hand’s already passing it to me.

Finally we squeeze up to the third floor through a passage that spits us into what must have been a maid’s room. The tiny window is perfect — front-row view of Garrow’s goons setting up floodlights on the lawn.

“Now we wait,” Silas says, his voice barely above a whisper as he peers through the gap in the curtains.

We don’t wait long. Garrow’s men emerge with metal cans, splashing liquid across the front gardens. A lighter flicks open in the darkness.