Page 70 of Where The Devil Kneels

“He’s resting,” I insist, helping him back onto the edge of the bed with careful hands. “Just making some plans for the future.”

Dr. Rao checks his vitals and examines the bandages with professional efficiency. “The estate?” she asks, though it’s clearly not really a question.

“It needs us,” Silas says simply. “Both of us.”

She nods, making notes on her clipboard, her professional mask softening into something warmer as she observes our still-intertwined fingers. “The Hale estate has stood for generations,” she says. “I imagine it can wait a few weeks for you to heal properly.”

“And then?” I ask, not entirely sure what I’m asking.

Dr. Rao’s eyes meet mine with understanding that goes beyond her medical training. “And then you do what Hales and Merricks have always done, you protect those who need protection. You provide sanctuary.” She glances between us, at how Silas leans slightly toward me even as I position myself between him and the door.

When she leaves, Silas gently pulls me onto the narrow bed beside him. The monitor keeps its steady rhythm. Outside, dawn rises over a town waking to its first morning without Garrow’s shadow in years. In here, the two of us make quiet plans, not because of any vow or promise, but simply because we want to.

“Rest,” I tell him, pressing my lips to his forehead as his eyelids begin to droop. “The estate will be there when you’re ready.”

“You’ll stay?” he asks, already half-asleep, fingers tightening around mine.

“Yes,” I promise, settling beside him as he drifts off. “No more watching from shadows. From now on, we face everything together.”

Chapter nineteen

New Foundations

TwomonthsafterGarrow’sarrest, the grand hall looks nothing like the ritual site where I nearly lost everything. Scaffolding climbs toward the ceiling, and drop cloths cover every surface, making it feel like we’re throwing the saddest ghost party ever. The air is thick with plaster dust that clings to my throat and leaves a fine white layer on my skin. Every so often, another piece of damaged panelling crashes to the floor, exposing secrets hidden for centuries. Through it all, Silas moves with a new sense of belonging, no longer a shadow but a man who finally fits in his own home.

“Be careful with that section,” Rafe calls out, his weathered hands gesturing at a worker poised to remove a particularly ornate piece of panelling. “There’s more behind it than you think.”

I hide my smile behind my leather journal, pen ready on a new page. Rafe doesn’t realize just how right he is. Behind that panel is one of the estate’s most complicated alarm systems: a set of counterweights and trip wires that once made certain floorboards vibrate, warning Silas of intruders. We’ve already found three other clever setups like it this morning.

“Ms. Hale, you might want to see this,” another worker calls, voice muffled by his dust mask.

I pick my way across the debris-strewn floor, sidestepping a pile of bent nails ready to ambush feet. The worker stands inside a wall section now removed, revealing a narrow alcove barely wide enough for a person.

“Lookout point,” Silas says, materializing beside me without warning. Two months out of the shadows, and he still moves like a ghost when distracted. “This one overlooks the main entrance. There are pressure plates beneath certain floorboards that alert the watcher if someone approaches.”

The worker looks between us, puzzled by how much Silas knows, but he’s paid well enough not to ask questions. I can almost see him making a mental note about us: the strange owners, one who writes everything down and one who knows every detail of the house.

“Mark it on the preservation list,” I tell the worker, then turn to add the discovery to my journal. The leather-bound book is already half-filled with sketches, notes, and measurements of every hidden feature we’ve uncovered. Grandmother would have appreciated the documentation; her own journals are meticulous, if deliberately vague on certain details.

Across the hall, Silas moves through the workers with a mix of confidence and hesitation. He knows where everything goes and can explain the house’s construction in detail, but he still seems surprised when someone talks to him directly. His knife wound has healed over the past two months, but years of being alone have left deeper scars.

“The defensive features are ingenious for their time,” Silas explains to Rafe, pointing to a section of exposed wall where metal plates are sandwiched between layers of wood. “Bulletproof by nineteenth-century standards. Your grandfather maintained them religiously.”

Rafe nods, running calloused fingers along the metal with something like reverence. “Pop never said what they were for. Just that some parts of the house weren’t to be messed with.”

“Smart man,” Silas replies, the ghost of a smile touching his lips.

I watch them from across the room, pretending to focus on my notes. Even now, I’m sometimes surprised by how much Silas has changed in the past few weeks. I used to know him only as a voice in the shadows, someone just out of sight, and now he talks openly with others.

He’s still watchful and notices everything, but now he focuses on the world around him instead of hiding himself away.

A sharp crack of splintering wood cuts through the general noise of construction, followed by a muttered curse. One of the newer workers, a gangly kid barely out of high school, dropped his pry bar directly onto a carved section of moulding, sending a jagged crack through a design that had held up for over two centuries.

Silas reacts instantly. His body goes tense, and his hand moves toward the boy before he stops himself. I see his face shift quickly from anger to understanding, then to self-control. The worker, not realizing what almost happened, just looks at the damage and mutters an apology.

I move to stand beside Silas, close enough that our shoulders touch. I don’t reach for his hand, not here with so many eyes on us, but I let mine rest on the table near his, our pinky fingers a hair breadth away.

“It can be repaired,” I hum softly, for his ears only. “Wood and plaster are just materials. They’re able to be mended.”