Page 82 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Adult complicated or actually complicated?” She perches on the edge of the table, her thin frame coiled with that perpetual readiness I’ve come to associate with her. “Because those are different things.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Both, I think.” I hesitate, then decide that Marta’s unique perspective might actually help. “I received a job offer. A prestigious preservation firm wants me to consult on historical properties along the East Coast.”

“That’s amazing!” Her face lights up with genuine excitement, then dims slightly as understanding dawns. “Oh. But that would mean leaving the estate. And Silas.”

“Exactly.” I close the catalogue book with a sigh. “I suggested he could come with me, but…”

“But he freaked out,” Marta finishes, nodding as if this is exactly what she expected. “He’s never left the estate, has he? Not really.”

“Not in decades,” I confirm. “And the prospect terrifies him more than facing down armed intruders.”

Marta considers this, her fingers absently tracing the silver filigree of the letter opener. “You’re approaching this wrong,” she says finally. “You can’t just expect someone who’s lived in walls for most of his life to suddenly be cool with, like, airports and hotels and stuff.”

“I’m not expecting—”

“You kind of are,” she cuts me off, that refreshing teenage bluntness slicing through my defences. “You need to start smaller. Like, way smaller. A day trip to Somerset or Millfield. Somewhere close where he can test the waters without feeling trapped if it gets overwhelming.”

The suggestion is so obvious, so practical, that I feel slightly ridiculous for not thinking of it myself. “That’s… actually brilliant.”

“I know,” she says with an exaggerated hair flip that makes me smile despite myself. “I contain multitudes.”

The library door opens quietly, and we both turn to see Silas entering with a stack of reference materials. He freezes momentarily when he sees us, clearly not expecting company, before his features smooth into that careful neutrality I know now as his public face.

“I can come back later,” he says, already retreating.

“No need,” I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. “We’re just cataloguing some of the artifacts from the east wing storage.”

An awkward silence descends, thick with the day's unresolved tension. Silas nods stiffly and moves toward the far bookshelf, deliberately keeping his distance as he begins shelving the materials he’s brought.

Marta’s eyes dart between us, missing nothing. With a decisive snort, she slides off the table and approaches Silas directly, ignoring my whispered “Marta, don’t” with a dismissive wave.

“So,” she says loudly, planting herself directly in front of him, “Elara told me you’re afraid to leave the estate.”

I gape at her as Silas’s hands freeze mid-motion, a leather-bound volume suspended between shelf and air. Real fucking subtle, Marta. His eyes flick to me, something like betrayal flashing across his features before disappearing behind his careful mask.

“That’s a simplification,” he says, voice measured.

“Is it though?” Marta challenges, crossing her arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty straightforward. You’ve spent decades watching others live their lives. Don’t you want to actually live yours with her?”

The bluntness of her question seems to affect him physically. His shoulders stiffen, and for a moment I think he might simply walk away. But Marta holds his gaze with the fearless directness of someone who’s faced much scarier things than an uncomfortable conversation.

“It’s not that simple,” he finally says, his voice low. “The outside world is… unfamiliar territory.”

“Yeah, and?” Marta shrugs. “Most of life is unfamiliar territory. That’s kind of the whole point.”

I watch, fascinated, as Silas struggles to formulate a response to her uncompromising perspective. The careful walls he maintains, the precise control he’s cultivated over decades, none of it works against Marta’s teenage certainty.

“My responsibilities—” he begins.

“Will still be here when you get back,” she interrupts. “Unless you think the house is going to, like, crumble to dust if you take a day off?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I am accustomed to certain parameters.”

“Parameters,” Marta echoes, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head. “God, listen to yourself. You sound like a security manual, not a person.” She steps closer to him, fearless. “Look, I get being scared. Believe me, I get it. But Elara’s offering you something most people would kill for, a chance to see the world with someone who actually gives a damn about you. And you’rewhat? Hiding behind ‘parameters’?”

The directness of her assault leaves Silas without his usual defences. For once, he doesn’t have a careful, measured response. Instead, he simply stands there, the book still suspended in his hands, his eyes revealing more vulnerability than I’ve seen since his recovery from Garrow’s attack.

“I should finish this another time,” he finally says, placing the book carefully on the nearest table. He leaves without another word, his usual silent grace momentarily abandoned for a retreat that borders on escape.