Page 83 of Where The Devil Kneels

When the door closes behind him, Marta turns to me with a satisfied nod.

“He’ll think about it now.”

“Or he’ll retreat further into himself,” I counter, uncertain whether to be grateful or horrified by her intervention. “You were pretty harsh.”

She returns to our cataloguing table, picking up the letter opener again. “Sometimes harsh is what works. Especially for people who’ve built their entire identity around control.” She tilts her head, studying the silver artifact. “Sometimes you need someone to just call out your bullshit directly.”

We work in relative silence after that, the tension gradually easing as we lose ourselves in the methodical process of documentation. By late afternoon, my spirits have lifted enough that I decide to spend the evening hour in the garden, watching as summer’s last flowers give way to autumn’s first bronze tinges.

The garden bench feels cool beneath me as dusk approaches, the stone soaking up the day’s last warmth. I trace my fingers along the carved arm, feeling the generations of hands that have worn smooth paths in the granite. Above me, the estate windows reflect the setting sun, turning each pane to molten gold.

I don’t hear Silas approach, I never do, but suddenly he’s there, standing at the edge of the stone path, his silhouette sharp against the darkening sky. His posture is rigid but determined, hands clasped behind his back in what I recognize as his attempt to appear calm despite inner turmoil.

“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, the single word carrying more weight than seems possible. “We could try… the next town over. Just for a few hours.”

Joy bubbles up so suddenly that it catches me off guard. I rise from the bench, moving toward him with careful restraint, afraid that too much enthusiasm might shatter his fragile resolve.

“Really?” I ask, unable to keep the hope from my voice.

He nods once, a quick, decisive movement. “Millfield has that small historical museum you mentioned once. It’s only twenty miles away.”

Each word sounds carefully rehearsed, as if he’s spent hours preparing for this moment.

I reach for his hand, giving him plenty of time to pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, his fingers curl around mine with tentative pressure, a small victory that feels monumental.

“Thank you,” I whisper, the simple phrase inadequate for the magnitude of what he’s offering.

His eyes meet mine, fear and determination warring in their depths. “For you,” he says softly. “With you.”

Silas sits in my car like he’s been strapped to an electric chair, back rigid against the leather seat, knuckles bloodless where they grip his knees. The dashboard, with its array of blinking lights, digital displays, and mysterious buttons, might as well be mission control at NASA for how intensely he studies it, as if memorizing potential threats. We’ve been on the road for exactly seven minutes, and he hasn’t exhaled properly since we passed through the estate gates. I keep the radio off, and the windows cracked, afraid that too much sensory input might send him scrambling for the door handle. Twenty miles has never felt so far.

“You okay?” I ask, immediately regretting the pointless question. Of course he’s not okay. He’s terrified.

“Yes.” His voice is tight, controlled. A lie we both recognize.

The road curves through autumn-touched countryside, familiar territory transforming into the unknown with each mile marker we pass. I watch Silas from the corner of my eye, noting how he tracks each passing car with the hyper vigilance of someone accustomed to identifying threats from shadow-draped corners.

“The museum has an exhibition on colonial architecture,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to desperately cheerful. “Might be interesting to compare their preservation techniques with ours.”

He nods, a short, jerky movement. “Historical context is valuable.”

The town appears ahead, Millfield, population 3,218 according to the weather-beaten welcome sign. It’s almost painfully quaint, with a main street straight out of a Hallmark movie and buildings that wouldn’t have looked out of place a century ago, despite their updated storefronts. I pull into a parking space across from the museum, a converted Victorian home with a small bronze plaque beside the entrance.

Silas doesn’t move when I shut off the engine.

“We don’t have to do this,” I say softly. “We can turn around right now.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing beneath the skin. “No. I want to try.” With visible effort, he releases his death grip on his knees and reaches for the door handle.

Watching Silas experience modern life is like watching someone from another century transported into the present. He startles when the museum’s automatic doors slide open, his body instinctively shifting closer to mine. Inside, the security cameras mounted in corners draw his immediate attention, his eyes tracking their movements with professional assessment. When an interactive touchscreen display lights up as we approach, he actually flinches, one hand reaching reflexively for me before he catches himself.

“It’s just motion-activated,” I explain quietly, deliberately brushing my arm against his to let him know the contact is welcome. “It senses when someone approaches.”

He nods, absorbing this information with the intensity he brings to everything. “Efficient security measure. Non-invasive monitoring of visitor engagement.”

Despite his discomfort with the modern elements, Silas’s encyclopedic knowledge of historical construction emerges as we move through the exhibits. He pauses before a display of colonial-era woodworking tools, his tension momentarily forgotten.

“These are mislabelled,” he murmurs, examining a set of antique planes behind glass. “The smaller one is for detail work on crown moulding, not furniture joinery.”