22. Shadows in Daylight
Chapter twenty-two
Shadows in Daylight
The letter shakes a little in my hands, the fancy cream paper shining in the light like a prize.
I suppose it is—a sign that my work matters, printed on letterhead so impressive it makes my stomach flutter.
Pearson & Whitmore Historical Preservation wants me, actual me, not just because I’m a Hale or because this old house is famous, to help restore historic buildings up and down the East Coast. Half a year ago, I would have signed right away, barely glancing past the first lines.
Now I keep rereading the part about “extended on-site assessments requiring travel,” and those words seem to get heavier each time.
I’ve turned this study into my safe place, somewhere I feel truly myself.
Silas fixed up the bookshelves, and now they’re filled with my grandmother’s journals and new books on preservation.
Morning sunlight pours through the windows, lighting up my old desk with a warm glow.
On the dark wood, the four pages of the letter stand out, promising recognition, new chances, and new problems.
I reach for my long-cold coffee and sip anyway. I’ve stared at this offer for hours, torn between ambition and the new roots I’ve put down here—with the estate, its purpose, and the man who stepped out from these walls to share my life.
The door opens quietly, reminding me how Silas still moves like someone used to staying out of sight. I don’t look up right away, but I sense him—he brings a kind of focus to any room that you can feel even if you can’t see it.
“You’re up early,” he says, his voice mixing concern with respect for my independence. It still surprises me sometimes. He brings over a fresh mug of coffee to swap for my cold one.
“Just reviewing some correspondence.” The casual deflection tastes bitter in my mouth. We don’t lie to each other, not even by omission. Not after everything.
He glances at the letter, his eyes narrowing when he sees the letterhead. I notice his body tense—shoulders back, fingers flexing, jaw tightening. I know him well enough to spot these small signs of worry.
“Pearson and Whitmore,” he reads, voice carefully neutral. “They’re reaching out to you professionally?”
I nod, feeling a bit of excitement even with the tension in the air.
“They want me to consult on preservation projects—places like ours, but without our resources or know-how.” I can’t help the pride in my voice.
“They said my work here was ‘uniquely sensitive to historical integrity while accommodating modern necessities.’”
Silas sets my new coffee down gently, barely making a sound. 'That’s well-deserved recognition, Elara.' His words are calm and supportive, but he looks away, staring out the window and across the grounds. He grips the desk, tension showing in the way he holds himself, as if he wants to pull back.
“It would mean travelling,” I say, watching him closely. “A week here, two there, never longer, but…” I let my words fade, giving him time to think.
We sit in silence, the only sounds the ticking of the mantle clock and the quiet creaks of the house. Silas doesn’t move at all, perfectly still in a way that comes from years of watching and waiting.
“You should accept,” he finally says, each word measured and even. “Your expertise deserves wider recognition.”
“What about you?” I ask, getting right to the point. “Would you come with me?”
My question lingers in the air, simple but full of meaning. Silas’s hand moves toward his collar, a habit I’ve noticed when he feels trapped.
“I have responsibilities here,” he says, choosing his words. “The estate…”
“It can run without you watching over it every minute,” I reply. “We have security systems, trained staff. The estate doesn’t need you here all the time now.”
His face changes for a moment, showing something raw and unguarded before he hides it again. “It’s not about the estate needing me.”
Suddenly, I get it, and it hurts. “It’s about you needing the estate.”
Silas’s gaze drops, the closest he comes to admitting weakness. “I’ve never been…out there. Not properly. Not as myself.”
“You could,” I say, getting up and moving closer. “You could come with me. We could visit these places together. I’d love your help with the historical work. And between jobs, we could just travel, see new things, live beyond these walls.”
“I can’t just walk among them,” he says quietly. “Not after all this time.”
Frustration rises in me. My voice shakes, caught between begging and anger. 'Why not? You’re not a ghost, Silas. You’re a person, brilliant and capable, someone who deserves more than being stuck in this house.'
“This house is all I know,” he says, his words short and tense. He stands even straighter, shoulders back in that guarded way I remember from when we first met. “I’ve spent my life protecting it.”
My words are sharp, desperate. 'I’m not asking you to leave it behind,' I say, my voice rough with hope and fear. 'I’m asking you to see that your life could be more than just these walls.'
“My purpose—”
“Isn’t the same as your life!” I say, louder than I mean to. “God, Silas, you’re more than your duty. We’ve talked about this. You’ve said it yourself.”
His face shuts down, hardening like doors I thought I’d opened for good. That closed-off look—hurt, resentful, afraid—returns, and it hurts to see his old walls come back. 'In theory. Within safe parameters.'
“Safe parameters,” I repeat, the words leaving a bitter taste. “So this—us—is just another security rule? Something you keep inside strict limits?”
The pain on his face makes me regret what I said right away. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then tell me,” I say, stepping closer. “Help me understand why leaving here scares you more than facing Garrow and his knife.”
His eyes meet mine, dark with an emotion I can’t quite name. “Because out there, I don’t know how to protect you. I don’t know how to be…whoever I’m supposed to be beyond these walls.”
His honesty takes the anger right out of me. “You’d just be yourself. You’d be with me.”
“And who am I without this place?” he says, so quietly I have to listen hard. “Who is Silas Merrick in a world that’s moved on without him for years?”
I reach for his hand, but he steps away, shoulders tense and jaw tight, avoiding my touch. That space between us hurts more than anything either of us could say.
“I need time,” he says, moving toward the door with that smooth, quiet way that always reminds me of shadows. “To think about this.”
He stops at the doorway, hand on the knob, and for a second, I think he might turn back or say something else. But he just closes the door quietly, not in anger, but with careful control. Somehow, that hurts even more.
I sink into my chair, the letter cold and heavy in my hands, as sharp as regret.
I catch my reflection in the window, eyes red with tears I haven’t let fall, searching for answers in the bright but confining daylight.
The estate stretches out beyond me, both a safe haven and a cage for us.
I press my hand to the letter, its feel grounding me while the ache of what I might have ruined stays in my chest.
Afternoon sunlight streams through the library’s tall windows, turning dust motes into miniature constellations that drift between ancient volumes and freshly repaired shelves.
I’ve read the same artifact description five times now, the words blurring beneath my unfocused gaze as the conversation with Silas replays in endless loops through my mind.
Beside me, Marta chatters about the ornate silver letter opener we’re cataloguing, her voice barely penetrating the fog of my distraction.
The library feels emptier than it should, Silas’s absence from our usual routine a palpable void that the sunlight can’t quite warm.
“…clearly late Victorian, but the floral pattern suggests continental influence rather than—” Marta stops mid-sentence, waving her hand in front of my face. “Hello? Earth to Elara? Are you even listening to me?”
I blink, forcing myself back to the present. “Sorry. You were saying something about continental influence?”
Marta narrows her eyes, dark and perceptive beyond her seventeen years.
The ragged pink scar on her neck, where Garrow’s knife had slipped, catches the light when she turns her head.
Two months later, the wound has healed, but it’s left her with a sharpened edge, as if surviving that night has transformed her already keen awareness into something almost unnerving.
“Okay, what happened?” she demands, setting down the letter opener with deliberate care. “You’ve been staring at that same paragraph for twenty minutes, and you keep looking at the door like you’re expecting someone to either rescue you or shoot you.”
“Nothing happened,” I lie, then immediately surrender to her skeptical glare. “Fine. Something happened. But it’s complicated.”
“Adult complicated or actually complicated?” She perches on the edge of the table, her thin frame coiled with that perpetual readiness I’ve come to associate with her. “Because those are different things.”
Despite everything, I laugh. “Both, I think.” I hesitate, then decide that Marta’s unique perspective might actually help. “I received a job offer. A prestigious preservation firm wants me to consult on historical properties along the East Coast.”
“That’s amazing!” Her face lights up with genuine excitement, then dims slightly as understanding dawns. “Oh. But that would mean leaving the estate. And Silas.”
“Exactly.” I close the catalogue book with a sigh. “I suggested he could come with me, but…”
“But he freaked out,” Marta finishes, nodding as if this is exactly what she expected. “He’s never left the estate, has he? Not really.”
“Not in decades,” I confirm. “And the prospect terrifies him more than facing down armed intruders.”