Page 85 of Where The Devil Kneels

“Unscheduled visit,” Silas observes, his voice clipped. His fingers, which had remained loosely intertwined with mine for the entire drive, now withdraw to rest on his knee in a deceptively casual position I recognize as combat-ready.

I pull up beside Maeve’s car, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach. “Maybe she’s just dropping off those preservation documents she mentioned last week.”

Silas doesn’t respond, but the slight tightening around his eyes tells me he’s not buying my optimism either. Maeve doesn’t make social calls, and she certainly doesn’t show up unannounced unless something's wrong.

The front door opens before we reach the steps, revealing my cousin in what I’ve come to think of as battle attire. Her expression is a carefully constructed neutral that does nothing to hide the tension radiating from her rigid posture.

“There you are,” she says, scanning us with sharp eyes. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for hours.”

“We were in Millfield,” I reply, deliberately casual as I pass her on my way into the foyer. “My phone was off.”

Something flickers across her features , surprise quickly suppressed. “Both of you? In Millfield?” Her gaze shifts to Silas, reassessing him with newfound curiosity.

Silas inclines his head slightly in acknowledgement but offers no elaboration. His focus has already shifted to the collection of legaldocuments clutched in Maeve’s hand. “What’s happened?” he asks directly, positioning himself slightly ahead of me in the entryway, a guardian's instinct to place himself between potential threat and his charge. Old habits die hard.

Maeve’s lips press into a thin line as she turns, leading us into the grand hall where renovation work has finally given way to restored elegance. She moves to the centre table and spreads out several documents with the precision of a general deploying troops.

“Garrow Development Partners has filed a challenge against the estate’s protected status,” she announces without preamble. “They’re using a set of obscure zoning regulations and historical variance laws that predate our trust establishment.”

My stomach drops. “How is that possible? Garrow’s in jail awaiting trial.”

“Garrow the man is in jail,” Maeve corrects, tapping her fingers against a corporate chart. “Garrow Developmental Partners is a separate legal entity with its own board of directors. Most who owe their positions to Lyle but aren’t directly implicated in his criminal activities.”

Silas moves closer to the documents, his eyes scanning the legal language with surprising fluency. “They’re claiming the estate’s historical modifications were never properly permitted,” he observes, voice dangerously quiet. “That the hidden passages and security features constitute unauthorized structural changes that invalidate its historical designation.”

“Precisely.” Maeve nods, a hint of approval in her expression at his assessment. Maeve slides a thick folder toward me, revealing a letterhead I recognize instantly. “Pritchard,” I say, the name itself leaving a bitter taste. “Also known as the vultures who gutted that hospital in Westbrook and turned it into luxury condos while preservationists were still filing appeals.”

I lean against the table, the polished wood cool beneath my palms. “What’s their endgame? They can’t seriously think they’ll get control of the property.”

“They don’t need control,” Silas answers before Maeve can, his voice taking on that distant quality that signals he’s thinking strategically. “They just need to force structural modifications that would eliminate the estate’s defensive capabilities. Make it impossible for us to continue offering sanctuary.”

Maeve nods again. “If they can invalidate the historical designation, they can force compliance with modern building codes that would require opening up sealed passages, installing fire doors in currently hidden sections, and documenting floor plans filed with the county…”

“Everything that makes the estate a sanctuary would be compromised,” I finish, understanding dawning with sickening clarity.

Silas straightens, decision made. “We need to accelerate the security upgrades on the north and west perimeters. Limit access to essential personnel only. Move our current guests to the inner rooms with secondary escape routes.” He’s already mentally retreating into defensive isolation, the wall between him and the world rebuilding brick by brick before my eyes.

“No,” I say firmly, the idea forming even as I speak. “That’s exactly what they want, for us to hunker down, become secretive, look like we have something to hide.”

Maeve raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by my contradiction of Silas’s security assessment.

“What do you propose?” Silas asks, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his posture.

“We do the opposite,” I reply, moving around the table to face them both. “We invite people in. Not just anyone, but preservationists, architectural historians, and documentary filmmakers. We showcase the estate’s historical significance so publicly that any attempt to force modifications becomes a cultural outrage.”

“Exposure as protection,” Maeve murmurs, thoughtfully tapping her pen against her chin. “It has merit. Their legal strategy relies on operating through bureaucratic channels with minimal public scrutiny.”

Silas’s expression tightens. “You want to open the estate to strangers? After everything that’s happened?”

“Not all of it,” I clarify quickly. “We control the narrative. We decide which parts to showcase and which to keep private. But we make this place too publicly valuable to touch.”

“We can’t hide forever,” I add more gently, holding his gaze. “Secrecy made sense when the threats were supernatural rituals and corrupt officials operating in shadows. But this is a legal battle in the public eye. Different weapons for different enemies.”

Something shifts in his eyes, not agreement, not yet, but consideration. The strategist in him recognizes the tactical sense even as the guardian bristles at the exposure.

“I’ll need to review their complete filing,” Maeve interjects, gathering her documents. “I’ve already filed a preliminary response that buys us thirty days. Use that time wisely.” She slides a business card across the table.

“This is Katherine Winters, the best architectural historian at Eastland University. If you’re serious about the public approach, start with her.”