16. Bloodlines and Boundaries #3
“Elara, please,” Maeve whispers, something crumbling in her perfect facade. “I’ve only ever wanted to keep you safe.”
My hands slam down on the table, sending papers scattering.
“You’ve dictated what I wear, who I see, what medication I take, all while calling my experiences delusions!
” My voice cracks as years of suppressed rage finally erupt.
“You didn’t protect me, Maeve. You fucking colonized me.
You planted your flag in my mind and claimed every inch as your territory. ”
I pick up the agreement. “This house is mine. Not just the walls and roof, but what it stands for. And Silas belongs here, too. Our families decided that a long time ago. I’m not changing it because you think it’s weird.”
Maeve stands frozen, fingers trembling at her collarbone. “You can’t be serious. You’re throwing away your future, your safety, for this crumbling mansion and a man who lives in its walls?”
The question just sits there between us.
Grandma’s blueprints cover the desk. Silas hunches over them, finger tracing paths only he knows. He’s still a wreck — breathing rough, face white under fresh bandages — but his eyes are burning. He knows exactly what to do.
“We need to activate the primary defence network first,” he explains, voice steady despite the pain I know each word costs him. “Your grandmother maintained the mechanical systems religiously, but they’ll need manual initiation after years of sitting untouched.”
When he looks up at me, there’s something beyond determination in his gaze, a question, perhaps, or the shadow of doubt.
“Are you certain about this, Elara? Once we start, Garrow will know exactly who he’s dealing with. There’s no going back to normal after this.”
“Normal died the moment I found bloodstains in my foyer,” I reply, already moving toward the door. “Show me where to start.”
He moves through the house like it’s his own body, like he’s got a map tattooed on the inside of his eyelids.
Room to room, he's talking, and I'm doing the hands-on work since his hands are all bandaged up.
In the dining room, the fancy one nobody ever actually eats in, I reach behind the flower carvings on the wall panel.
The lever slides exactly where he said it would. Deep in the walls: click-click-whirr.
“Pressure plates activated in the east lawn,” Silas murmurs with satisfaction. “Anyone crossing that section will find the ground suddenly unstable beneath their feet.”
In the morning room, he points to the Dickens on the shelf — the one I’ve always liked the look of but never read. “Pull it toward you, not out.” When I do, the spine clicks. Something hums deep in the walls. Another trap set.
“The false windows in the east wing,” he explains. “They appear as easy entry points but trigger alarm systems when breached.”
I reach past him for the panel behind the hall mirror and our hands bump. My whole body goes electric. His fingers are cool, steady despite everything. I let the touch last a beat longer than I need to. Weird how something that small can feel like an anchor.
We zigzag through the house, him pointing and me activating.
Panels behind paintings. Drawers with false bottoms. Bookshelves that aren’t bookshelves.
With each click, I feel less like I’m fumbling.
The house hums back at us — trembles underfoot, mechanical whispers in the walls, air moving through vents I never knew existed.
“The basement next,” Silas says, leading me toward a door I’ve rarely used since inheriting the property. “The water defence systems are our most effective deterrent.”
The stairs go down into dark our flashlights barely dent. Cold air rises to meet us, smelling of earth and stone. Silas falters here, one hand on the wall, his injuries finally showing.
I grab his arm as he stumbles, my fingers digging into his sleeve. “Stop. You’re bleeding through the bandages.” Blood seeps dark against the white gauze. His jaw is clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping. “You’ll kill yourself before Garrow even gets the chance.”
His eyes narrow against a wave of pain, but he waves off my concern. “This is nothing,” he says, voice strained. “Your grandmother designed it this way—the house needs both of us. Two keys for every lock. Two hands for every lever. She made sure no one person could ever control everything.”
The basement opens into a series of chambers. In the largest, copper and brass pipes web across the ceiling and walls, all feeding into massive cisterns sunk into the stone floor. A rainwater collection system, Silas explains — daily use and emergency defence both.
“Your grandmother insisted on maintaining this system even after the house was connected to municipal water,” he says, a hint of admiration colouring his voice. “Most people thought it was unconventional. Few understood its true purpose.”
We work the valves together, his hands guiding mine through the maze of pipes. Some mechanisms need both our strength, forcing our fingers to overlap on rusted wheels.
“Now the passages,” Silas says once the water system is primed. “We need to secure some access points while leaving others available for our own use.”