Chapter 13 #2
“Because your brother kept digging and look where it landed him,” he says with clipped impatience. “I’d hate for history to repeat itself. I imagine your mother would prefer not to have both her children go missing in the same year.”
My pulse stutters. “What do you know about my mother?”
Silas looks away.
“I’m done talking. Time to go, Mercer.”
I gather my things and turn toward the door, determined not to let him see how badly the exchange has shaken me.
That’s when I notice the painting hanging above a low cabinet near the back wall.
A black cat sits against a moonlit garden, its fur rendered in glossy strokes and its yellow eyes almost luminous.
It looks exactly like the cat I’ve seen around campus.
Same knowing look. Same mischievous eyes.
“I’ve seen that cat before.”
Silas follows my gaze. “That was Lucky,” he says. “My mother’s old cat.”
“Why does your uncle have a portrait of your mother’s cat?”
Silas studies the painting for a moment, his expression softening with quiet amusement.
“She gave it to him years ago,” he says.
“Lucky was the only creature in Salem’s Fall who could curl up in Lucien’s lap without being thrown out.
We all loved Lucky.” His faint smile lingers.
“Even Lucien. And Lucien doesn’t love much. ”
“When did he die?” I ask.
“A long time ago.”
I study the cat’s painted eyes a moment longer before forcing myself to look away. It’s just a black cat. They all look alike… don’t they?
My stomach growls loudly, and I put a hand over my stomach, embarrassed.
Silas cocks his head. “Have you eaten?”
“I had breakfast,” I say. “But then I sort of… forgot about the rest. Guess I lost track of time.” I reach for my bag. “I’m fine. Rowan and I can grab food after we leave.”
At the mention of Rowan, a flash of irritation crosses Silas’s face. He reaches over and takes the tote bag from my hands before I can object.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you something to eat. It should never be said that I’m a terrible host.”
“You aren’t my host. I’m breaking and entering, remember?”
Silas holds the door open. “Same difference.”
We enter the main house through the front door this time, Silas ushering me into an enormous foyer of dark wood, burgundy walls, and old oil paintings.
A sweeping staircase curves toward the second floor beneath a wrought-iron chandelier.
The air carries the scent of wood polish and something older, heady and musky, like incense embedded in the walls.
Silas leads me past a massive stone fireplace, strange symbols carved into its surface and antique trinkets lining the mantel that are probably worth more than my tuition.
“Your house is really beautiful,” I say.
“It knows it is,” he says.
“That’s an unsettling answer.”
He shrugs. “It’s an unsettling house.”
We continue down a long corridor until the polished wood gives way to black-and-white checkered tile of the kitchen.
The room is enormous, bright and filled with gleaming steel appliances and marble counters.
A gentleman in formal black attire stands near the center island.
His hair is combed neatly back, and his expression holds quiet amusement.
“Hello, Jottingsworth.” Silas’s posture loosens slightly as he grins at the man. “How’s your day been going?”
“Swimmingly, sir,” the man says. “I’m always happiest when your parents are in town. I have a feast prepared for dinner. All their favorites.”
“I’m sure they’ll love it,” Silas says.
“Hello, miss.” The man turns to me and bows, hands clasped before him. “My name is Edward Jottingsworth the Second. I’m the Blackhollow family butler.”
“The second?” I ask.
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 paté, 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.”