Page 86 of Where The Devil Kneels

As Maeve packs her materials, her gaze lingers on Silas longer than usual, reassessment evident in her scrutiny. “Millfield, hmm?” she murmurs to me as she passes. “Interesting development.”

When the front door closes behind her, Silas and I stand in silence, surrounded by the afternoon light streaming through windows our ancestors designed to illuminate while protecting those within.

“You really believe going public is the right approach?” he finally asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“I do,” I answer honestly. “Different times call for different strategies. Your ancestors understood that the passages were built when secrecy was the only protection possible. Now we have other options.”

He nods slowly, processing. “I’ll need to reconfigure certain security protocols if we’re allowing authorized visitors.” The fact that he’s considering implementation rather than arguing against the concept entirely feels like progress.

“We’ll do it together,” I assure him. “Nothing happens without both of us agreeing on the specifics.”

He studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. “There’s something I want to show you,” he says finally. “Would you wait in the library? I need approximately one hour.”

The unexpected request catches me off guard. “What is it?”

“A project I’ve been working on,” he replies, uncharacteristically evasive. “Please.”

Curiosity piqued, I agree, watching as he disappears up the grand staircase with purposeful strides. In the library, I attempt to distract myself with Maeve’s legal documents, but my mind keeps returning to the day’s strange contrasts, Silas venturing beyond the estate for the first time, only to be confronted with a threat that tempts him right back into isolation.

The old clock in the corner ticks away, counting down to whatever’s coming next. Through the windows, the sun’s going down, turning our garden gold and stretching shadows across all those paths where Silas and I have walked and talked and sometimes just been quiet together. I run my fingers over the books we fixed up, some leather, some cloth, feeling the little bumps of their titles under my fingertips like braille I can almost read.

When the library door finally opens, Silas stands there with an expression I can only describe as nervous determination. In his hands is a length of midnight-blue silk that I recognize as having once adorned one of the curtains.

“A blindfold?” I ask, eyebrows rising.

He nods, approaching with measured steps. “I’ve been working on something for several weeks. I’d like it to be a surprise, if you’ll permit me.”

The request is so uncharacteristically whimsical coming from Silas that I find myself smiling despite the day’s tensions. “Lead on, then.”

He slips the silk over my eyes, his fingers grazing my temples with a touch so light it makes my breath catch. Everything goes dark, and suddenly I’m all ears and nose and skin, catching the clean cedar smell of him, the soft rhythm of his breath, the warmth coming off his body as he stands so close I could lean forward just an inch and be against his chest.

He leads me out of the library like he’s done it a thousand times in the dark, which he definitely has. “Step up,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, then “doorway on your right” as his hand presses gently at the small of my back. We climb stairs, wind through hallways I could normally navigate blindfolded, except now I actually am blindfolded, and the house I know so well becomes a thrilling mystery map under his guidance.

The blindfold heightens everything, cool drafts marking doorways, echoes revealing room sizes, that squeaky floorboard Silas always avoids. His hand presses firmly against my back, fingers splayed possessively. Scents shift as we walk, fresh paint, beeswax, and new fabric mingling with familiar old wood. His grip on my hand tightens with each step, and I realize with surprise that Silas, my ever-confident guardian, is nervous.

“Three steps forward,” Silas murmurs, his voice close to my ear. “Then stop.”

I follow his instructions, stepping forward until he tells me to stop. My bare feet sink into something soft and yielding where there had only been worn hardwood before. The air changes too, no longer the familiar mustiness of the hallway, but something alive with lavender and cedar that fills my lungs when I breathe deeply.

“Ready?” he asks, his fingers moving to the knot of the blindfold.

“More than ready,” I reply, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.

The silk slips off my eyes, and I blink in the soft golden glow washing over everything. My brain short-circuits for a second. This room I know so well looks completely different yet somehow the same, like walking into your childhood home after someone’s given it a magical makeover while keeping its soul intact.

“Silas,” I breathe, turning slowly to take in the full scope of what he’s created. “What did you do?”

Our bedroom has been completely transformed. The crown moulding that was crumbling last week now gleams overhead, all those twisting vines and flowers picked out in gold that winks in the warm light. The walls, God, the walls, where there had been water stains and curling paper, now there’s this incredible deep blue fabric that makes the room feel like it’s wrapping around us. Like we’re underwater but somehow still breathing just fine.

“How did you—” I start, moving deeper into the room, my fingers trailing over surfaces that blend centuries of craftsmanship with contemporary function. “When did you find the time?”

“While you were meeting with contractors for the east wing,” Silas explains, remaining by the doorway, watching me discover each element with undisguised pleasure in my reactions. “Rafe helped. And Dr. Rao advised on the ergonomic aspects.”

I turn slowly, drinking it all in. He’s built bookshelves into that weird corner that never made sense before, and filled them with our books all mixed together, mine and his becoming ours. The fireplace works again, with one of those gas things that won’t burn the house down but still makes real flames dance. Every inch of this room screams Silas, that perfect balance of old-world craftsmanship and “I don’t want you to freeze to death in winter” practicality.

“It’s perfect,” I say, turning back to thank him properly.

The rest of my words die in my throat. His expression has changed, no longer the measured guardian but something hungrier. His eyes follow me with predatory focus, his stance deceptively casual while every muscle seems coiled, ready to spring.