Page 47 of Salem’s Rise

Silas gives the butler a look of fond amusement. “His father lacked imagination,” he says. “Can we get Jack here something to eat, Jottingsworth?”

“I would be more than happy to prepare something.” Jottingsworth looks delighted as he guides us toward the breakfast nook. Silas and I take a seat, and he places my tote bag beside his chair. “What would you like to enjoy? We have smoked pheasant pâté, beluga caviar, lobster salad, duck confit. Or I could prepare the truffled mushroom tart?”

I blink at him.

“Uh… could I maybe just have a grilled cheese sandwich? Please?”

Silas laughs, the sound deep and unexpectedly warm, sending a strange flutter through my chest. It’s nothing like the cold, clipped irritation I’m used to from him on campus. It changes his entire face. He looks younger and lighter.

“An excellent choice, miss.” Jottingsworth nods solemnly and heads over to the stovetop.

Silas stares at me from across the table, a faint smile still lingering on his face.

“You’re judging me,” I say.

“I’m reconsidering your standards.”

“My standards are excellent,” I say. “Melted cheese is objectively one of humanity’s greatest achievements.”

He leans back in his chair, and for the first time, we simply smile at each other. I don’t know which Silas is real. The man sitting across from me now, joking about my food choices, or the one I know on campus—the cold, impossible prick.

Then Lucien Blackhollow enters the kitchen.

“Silas,” he says in his deep, commanding voice. “There you are. Your mother said I’d find you in here.”

The change in Silas is immediate. His shoulders lock and the warmth disappears from his face, leaving something controlled and sharp behind.

“Hello, Uncle,” he says.

“Ms. Mercer.” Lucien’s gaze lands on me, his expression softening into something politely courteous. “We haven’t been formally introduced,” he says, extending his hand to me. “Lucien Blackhollow.”

“Hello, Mr. Blackhollow,” I say, shaking his hand, surprised he already knows who I am. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“I was very sorry to hear about your brother,” he says. “Josh was an impressive young man. Such a shame.” He sighs sadly. “We all hoped for a different outcome.”

“You speak as though there’s been an outcome.”

Lucien’s expression reveals nothing. “Poor phrasing on my part,” he says, turning back to Silas. The polite courtesy vanishes. “What are you doing home?”

“I live here.”

“Not during the school term. You should be on campus. Your lacrosse coach has already called me twice regarding your absences.” His gaze hardens. “And yet here you are, missing another practice.”

The room feels ice cold despite the heat from the stovetop where my grilled cheese is cooking.

“I had something I needed to handle,” Silas says, looking away.

Lucien steps closer. “You have responsibilities. Your dalliances have consequences.” He lowers his voice, but the quietness only makes it harsher. “Distraction has never built a great leader, Silas.”

A muscle ticks in Silas’s jaw. “I know, Uncle.”

“Then behave like it,” Lucien snaps.

I have no idea what they’re discussing, but I don’t think lacrosse alone could account for the heavy weight beneath Lucien’s words or the careful way Silas answers him. Every response is measured, as if one wrong syllable might open a trap beneath his feet. One thing becomes perfectly clear from watching their interaction. At SFU, everyone fears Silas. Here, Silas fears Lucien.

“I’m finishing up my meeting with Mr. Ashcroft,” Lucien says to Silas. “I expect you in my study afterward.” He turns toward me again, and the gentleness returns so smoothly to his face, I almost get whiplash. “Ms. Mercer, do you require transportation home? I can have the driver take you.”

“No, thank you. I came with Rowan,” I say.