Page 71 of Where The Devil Kneels

He gets what I mean without me saying it. The house has been through worse, and sometimes things have to break before they can heal. He nods, and I see the tension leave his shoulders.

“The original craftsmen built in redundancies,” he replies, his voice steady again. “Everything essential exists in multiple forms.”

Rafe approaches with blueprints clutched in his work-roughened hands. “We’re ready for the east wing whenever you give the word. Dr. Rao’s been chomping at the bit to start setting up her clinic spaces.”

“Tomorrow,” I decide, making a note in my journal. “Silas and I need to check the structural integrity of the passages connecting to that section first.”

Rafe nods without asking anything, which is something I really appreciate. He accepts our partnership as it is and never digs into the obvious weirdness of our situation. Maybe living in this town has taught him that some things are better left alone.

As the workers clean up, the house settles around us, old beams creaking, sunlight cutting across the floor. Even the air feels different in rooms that have been closed off for years.

Silas stands beside me in the centre of the grand hall, his eyes tracking the last of the day’s light as it filters through the newly uncovered windows. “You can feel the difference,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “The air moves properly now. The house remembers how to breathe.”

I reach for his hand, our fingers finally touching now that the workers have gone. “No,” I say softly, “the house isn’t remembering. We’re the ones learning to breathe with it, like waking up to something that was always here.”

His fingers intertwine with mine, cool and careful, each point of contact a question mark. His thumb traces the ridge of my knuckles once, twice, a silent acknowledgement of something still fragile between us. “Partners,” he says, theword carrying the weight of centuries rather than weeks. “In breathing. In remembering. In all things.”

The last of the sunlight cuts through the dirty windows in narrow beams, catching dust we’ve stirred up from the floorboards. Outside, police are still untangling Garrow’s web of influence. In here, we stand surrounded by exposed beams and half-finished walls, neither of us mentioning how strange it feels to plan for next week, next month, next year, as if we’ve earned that kind of certainty.

The library smells like possibility, old leather, fresh ink, and the peculiar warmth of lamplight against aged paper. Nora and I have been at it for hours, documents spread across the mahogany table like some occult puzzle we are slowly solving. Outside, autumn rain taps gentle fingers against the leaded glass windows, the perfect soundtrack for historical detective work. I flex my cramping hand, ink-stained and tired from drafting our fifteenth attempt at a mission statement that won’t get us committed to the nearest psychiatric facility. How exactly do you legally encode “This house protects people from blood rituals and corrupt officials” without setting off every red flag in the legal system?

“Look at this connection,” Nora whispers, her voice carrying that familiar edge of scholarly excitement that makes her seem decades younger. Her fingertip traces a line on a family tree so old the ink has faded to sepia.

“Your great-great-grandmother’s second cousin marries a Merrick in 1873, creating a blood tie between the families that nobody documents officially.”

I lean over, squinting at the faded names. “So the arrangement isn’t just duty. It’s family.”

“Family by choice first, then by blood,” Nora confirms, already reaching for another document with the obsessive energy that makes her such an excellent archivist. “And look here, your grandmother purchased additional land in 1962 that connects the estate to the old railroad right-of-way. Another escape route, hidden in plain sight as a simple property expansion.”

I’ve never seen Nora this animated, not even when she showed me her secret archives. This isn’t just history to her — it’s vindication, proof that her lifetime of collecting “local legends” has been documentation of truth all along.

I return to my draft, crossing out yet another line that sounds too paranoid for legal consumption. “How about ‘a sanctuary for individuals requiring temporaryrefuge from difficult circumstances’? Generic enough to pass scrutiny but specific enough for our purposes.”

“Perfect,” Nora nods, not looking up from the boundary map she is comparing against modern county lines. “Vague with just enough teeth.”

The library door swings open with a familiar precision that announces Maeve’s arrival before I even look up. She stands framed in the doorway, her charcoal pantsuit pristine as always, though the lines are softened somewhat by a deep burgundy blouse I’ve never seen her wear before.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “The county prosecutor has new questions about Garrow’s financial holdings.” She strides to the table, setting down her portfolios with that precision that characterizes everything she does. “His assets are being frozen faster than he can move them offshore, which is the only good news I have.”

“We’re making progress here, too,” I offer, sliding my draft across the table. “What do you think? Legally sound but still true to purpose?”

Maeve scans the document, her expression shifting from professional assessment to reluctant approval. “This is… surprisingly good. I was prepared to have to rewrite everything.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. Two months ago, that comment would have sparked a fight. Now it’s just Maeve being Maeve, incapable of praise but trying, in her way, to meet me halfway.

She settles into a chair and begins unpacking her materials, her eyes darting to the doorways, the corners, the shadows between bookshelves. Still uncomfortable here. Still half-expecting something to emerge from the walls at any moment. I can’t really blame her. The last time she was in this library, it was a battlefield, with Garrow unconscious on the floor and Silas fighting for his life. I clench my hand beside me, the phantom crunch of Garrow’s jaw beneath my fist is still my favourite to replay.

Right on cue, as if summoned by my thoughts, Silas appears in the doorway with a tea service balanced on a silver tray. He moves into the room with that fluid grace that still catches me off guard sometimes.

Maeve flinches, and I bite back the urge to tell her to grow up before recovering with the kind of iron will that has probably served her well in courtrooms. “Mr. Merrick,” she acknowledges, her voice perfectly natural despite the white-knuckled grip on her pen.

“Ms. Calder-Hale,” he replies, setting the tray down. “Earl Grey, as you prefer.”

The slight widening of Maeve’s eyes tells me she’s surprised, and perhaps a bit unsettled, that he knows her tea preference. I suppress a smile, biting the inside of my cheek instead. Of course he knows. Silas has probably observed every visitor to this house for years, noting each detail with the attention that makes him both an excellent guardian and, occasionally, an unnerving companion.

“Thank you,” she manages, accepting the cup he pours for her with a stiff nod.

Nora seems completely unfazed by the exchange, still too engrossed in her documents to notice the tension. “The trust structure you suggested works perfectly with the historical designation,” she says, reaching for her own tea. “Federal protection without federal oversight. That’s the sweet spot.”