Page 81 of Where The Devil Kneels

My question lingers in the air, simple but full of meaning. Silas’s hand moves toward his collar, a habit I’ve noticed when he feels trapped.

“I have responsibilities here,” he says, choosing his words. “The estate…”

“It can run without you watching over it every minute,” I reply. “We have security systems, trained staff. The estate doesn’t need you here all the time now.”

His face changes for a moment, showing something raw and unguarded before he hides it again. “It’s not about the estate needing me.”

Suddenly, I get it, and it hurts. “It’s about you needing the estate.”

Silas’s gaze drops, the closest he comes to admitting weakness. “I’ve never been…out there. Not properly. Not as myself.”

“You could,” I say, getting up and moving closer. “You could come with me. We could visit these places together. I’d love your help with the historical work. And between jobs, we could just travel, see new things, live beyond these walls.”

“I can’t just walk among them,” he says quietly. “Not after all this time.”

Frustration rises in me. My voice shakes, caught between begging and anger. 'Why not? You’re not a ghost, Silas. You’re a person, brilliant and capable, someone who deserves more than being stuck in this house.'

“This house is all I know,” he says, his words short and tense. He stands even straighter, shoulders back in that guarded way I remember from when we first met. “I’ve spent my life protecting it.”

My words are sharp, desperate. 'I’m not asking you to leave it behind,' I say, my voice rough with hope and fear. 'I’m asking you to see that your life could be more than just these walls.'

“My purpose—”

“Isn’t the same as your life!” I say, louder than I mean to. “God, Silas, you’re more than your duty. We’ve talked about this. You’ve said it yourself.”

His face shuts down, hardening like doors I thought I’d opened for good. That closed-off look—hurt, resentful, afraid—returns, and it hurts to see his old walls come back. 'In theory. Within safe parameters.'

“Safe parameters,” I repeat, the words leaving a bitter taste. “So this—us—is just another security rule? Something you keep inside strict limits?”

The pain on his face makes me regret what I said right away. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then tell me,” I say, stepping closer. “Help me understand why leaving here scares you more than facing Garrow and his knife.”

His eyes meet mine, dark with an emotion I can’t quite name. “Because out there, I don’t know how to protect you. I don’t know how to be…whoever I’m supposed to be beyond these walls.”

His honesty takes the anger right out of me. “You’d just be yourself. You’d be with me.”

“And who am I without this place?” he says, so quietly I have to listen hard. “Who is Silas Merrick in a world that’s moved on without him for years?”

I reach for his hand, but he steps away, shoulders tense and jaw tight, avoiding my touch. That space between us hurts more than anything either of us could say.

“I need time,” he says, moving toward the door with that smooth, quiet way that always reminds me of shadows. “To think about this.”

He stops at the doorway, hand on the knob, and for a second, I think he might turn back or say something else. But he just closes the door quietly, not in anger, but with careful control. Somehow, that hurts even more.

I sink into my chair, the letter cold and heavy in my hands, as sharp as regret. I catch my reflection in the window, eyes red with tears I haven’t let fall, searching for answers in the bright but confining daylight. The estate stretches out beyond me, both a safe haven and a cage for us. I press my hand to the letter, its feel grounding me while the ache of what I might have ruined stays in my chest.

Afternoon sunlight streams through the library’s tall windows, turning dust motes into miniature constellations that drift between ancient volumes and freshly repaired shelves. I’ve read the same artifact description five times now, the words blurring beneath my unfocused gaze as the conversation with Silas replays in endless loops through my mind. Beside me, Marta chatters about the ornate silver letter opener we’re cataloguing, her voice barely penetrating the fog of my distraction. The library feels emptier than it should, Silas’s absence from our usual routine a palpable void that the sunlight can’t quite warm.

“…clearly late Victorian, but the floral pattern suggests continental influence rather than—” Marta stops mid-sentence, waving her hand in front of my face. “Hello? Earth to Elara? Are you even listening to me?”

I blink, forcing myself back to the present. “Sorry. You were saying something about continental influence?”

Marta narrows her eyes, dark and perceptive beyond her seventeen years. The ragged pink scar on her neck, where Garrow’s knife had slipped, catches the light when she turns her head. Two months later, the wound has healed, but it’s left her with a sharpened edge, as if surviving that night has transformed her already keen awareness into something almost unnerving.

“Okay, what happened?” she demands, setting down the letter opener with deliberate care. “You’ve been staring at that same paragraph for twenty minutes, and you keep looking at the door like you’re expecting someone to either rescue you or shoot you.”

“Nothing happened,” I lie, then immediately surrender to her skeptical glare. “Fine. Something happened. But it’s complicated.”