Page 84 of Where The Devil Kneels

I smile, watching scholarly interest temporarily override anxiety. “How do you know that?”

“The estate’s library has extensive documentation on period construction techniques,” he explains, his voice taking on that professorial quality I find secretly adorable. “And the northeast passage contains similar tools, still functional, that I’ve studied.”

My heart swells at this glimpse of the man beneath the fear, the brilliant, knowledgeable Silas who could contribute so much to preservation work if he could only step beyond his self-imposed boundaries.

The museum visit lasts precisely forty-three minutes; I can practically feel Silas counting each one before the press of other visitors and the constant electronic beeps of interactive displays begin to strain his composure. His shoulders inchprogressively higher toward his ears, and the space between us shrinks until our arms touch continuously.

“Hungry?” I suggest recognizing his limits. “There’s a café around the corner. Quieter than here.”

His relief is palpable as we exit into the afternoon sunlight. On the sidewalk, he automatically positions himself between me and the street, his protective instincts evidently functioning regardless of where he is. When a car honks nearby, his hand finds the small of my back, guiding me slightly farther from the curb.

The café, Millfield Brew & Bake, according to the hand-painted sign, occupies the ground floor of a renovated industrial building. Exposed brick walls lined with local artwork surround mismatched vintage tables and chairs. Large windows flood the space with natural light, eliminating the shadowy corners Silas typically gravitates toward.

“Corner table?” I suggest, already leading him to the most defensible position in the room, back to the wall, clear sight lines to both exits. His subtle nod confirms I’ve chosen correctly.

A server with vibrant blue hair approaches with menus, her eyebrow piercing catching the light. Silas catalogues these details with quick, assessing glances, his shoulders gradually lowering as he determines she presents no threat.

“First time in Millfield?” she asks cheerfully, setting down water glasses.

“Yes,” I answer when Silas doesn’t. “Just visiting for the day.”

“Cool. The apple tart is amazing if you’re into sweets. Made fresh this morning.” She rattles off other recommendations before leaving us to decide.

I watch Silas scan the room, his gaze methodically cataloguing each patron, each exit, and each potential hazard. The café is half-full, mostly with locals who clearly know each other, judging by the casual greetings exchanged between tables. Several of them glance curiously in our direction; newcomers obviously warrant attention in a town this size.

Silas shifts uncomfortably in his chair as he notices the attention.

“They’re looking at us,” he whispers, his body angling toward mine as if seeking shelter. His hand slides beneath the table, finding mine with unerring accuracy despite his eyes remaining fixed on the potential threats around us.

I squeeze his fingers gently, feeling their slight tremor. “They’re looking at you,” I correct, keeping my voice low enough for privacy. “You’re the most handsome man in the room.”

His eyes widen, darting to mine in genuine surprise. A flush creeps up his neck, colouring his cheeks with warmth I’ve rarely seen outside our most intimatemoments. For someone who has spent decades in the shadows, being truly seen remains a novel experience.

“That’s not—” he begins, then stops, clearly unsure how to process the compliment. His thumb traces unconscious patterns across my knuckles, a nervous gesture that feels heartbreakingly vulnerable.

“It is,” I insist gently. “Though they’re probably also wondering why you look like you’re planning escape routes.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Force of habit. There are seven possible exits, including the kitchen door and the staff-only corridor behind the counter.”

“Of course you counted,” I laugh softly, turning my hand to properly interlace our fingers beneath the table. “Try the apple tart. Consider it reconnaissance on local culinary traditions.”

He doesn’t let go of my hand when our food arrives, so I have to do some awkward one-handed manoeuvring with forks and coffee cups. But the contact seems to anchor him, each minute in public space, making him more and more less rigid. By the time we’re halfway through our meal, he’s managed to take in the artwork on the walls, comment on the building’s architectural history, and even nod politely to the older couple at the next table when they smile in our direction.

“The original timber framework has been beautifully preserved,” he observes, eyes tracking the exposed beams overhead. “Pre-1900 construction, maintained rather than replaced. Rare to see that level of commitment in commercial renovation.”

I hide my smile behind my coffee cup. Even terrified and out of his element, Silas can’t help noticing architectural details that would escape most people’s attention. His fingers remain firmly intertwined with mine, a physical tether to safety in unfamiliar territory, but his breathing has steadied, and his observations have become more frequent as his comfort grows.

When the blue-haired server returns to clear our plates, Silas makes eye contact briefly, a monumental achievement given his earlier state, and manages a quiet “Thank you” that sounds almost natural.

As we prepare to leave, his grip on my hand tightens momentarily. “This was…” he pauses, searching for the right word, “…illuminating.”

Not enjoyable, not comfortable, illuminating. But coming from Silas, it’s a significant concession. The fact that he hasn’t bolted for the door or retreated completely into himself counts as a victory.

I keep hold of his hand as we exit the café, feeling the subtle tension return to his frame as we step onto the busier sidewalk. But he doesn’t pull away, doesn’tretreat. Instead, his fingers adjust their grip on mine, finding a more secure hold as we navigate back toward the car.

One small town, one afternoon. A tiny step for most people, but for Silas, for us, it represents a crossing of boundaries I wasn’t sure would ever be possible. His world, expanding inch by careful inch beyond the estate’s protective walls.

We round the last curve in the driveway, and there it is, home. Silas lets out a breath next to me, finally easing up now that we’re almost there. Then we both see it at the same time. Maeve’s car. That shiny black sedan parked crooked by the front steps like she couldn’t be bothered to straighten out. Silas goes rigid again, all that relaxation from a second ago, gone like dust in the wind. His jaw tightens. His hands curl. Just like that, our afternoon in town might as well have never happened. We’re back to square one.