22. Shadows in Daylight #2
Marta considers this, her fingers absently tracing the silver filigree of the letter opener. “You’re approaching this wrong,” she says finally. “You can’t just expect someone who’s lived in walls for most of his life to suddenly be cool with, like, airports and hotels and stuff.”
“I’m not expecting—”
“You kind of are,” she cuts me off, that refreshing teenage bluntness slicing through my defences. “You need to start smaller. Like, way smaller. A day trip to Somerset or Millfield. Somewhere close where he can test the waters without feeling trapped if it gets overwhelming.”
The suggestion is so obvious, so practical, that I feel slightly ridiculous for not thinking of it myself. “That’s… actually brilliant.”
“I know,” she says with an exaggerated hair flip that makes me smile despite myself. “I contain multitudes.”
The library door opens quietly, and we both turn to see Silas entering with a stack of reference materials. He freezes momentarily when he sees us, clearly not expecting company, before his features smooth into that careful neutrality I know now as his public face.
“I can come back later,” he says, already retreating.
“No need,” I say quickly, perhaps too quickly. “We’re just cataloguing some of the artifacts from the east wing storage.”
An awkward silence descends, thick with the day's unresolved tension. Silas nods stiffly and moves toward the far bookshelf, deliberately keeping his distance as he begins shelving the materials he’s brought.
Marta’s eyes dart between us, missing nothing. With a decisive snort, she slides off the table and approaches Silas directly, ignoring my whispered “Marta, don’t” with a dismissive wave.
“So,” she says loudly, planting herself directly in front of him, “Elara told me you’re afraid to leave the estate.”
I gape at her as Silas’s hands freeze mid-motion, a leather-bound volume suspended between shelf and air. Real fucking subtle, Marta. His eyes flick to me, something like betrayal flashing across his features before disappearing behind his careful mask.
“That’s a simplification,” he says, voice measured.
“Is it though?” Marta challenges, crossing her arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks pretty straightforward. You’ve spent decades watching others live their lives. Don’t you want to actually live yours with her?”
The bluntness of her question seems to affect him physically. His shoulders stiffen, and for a moment I think he might simply walk away. But Marta holds his gaze with the fearless directness of someone who’s faced much scarier things than an uncomfortable conversation.
“It’s not that simple,” he finally says, his voice low. “The outside world is… unfamiliar territory.”
“Yeah, and?” Marta shrugs. “Most of life is unfamiliar territory. That’s kind of the whole point.”
I watch, fascinated, as Silas struggles to formulate a response to her uncompromising perspective. The careful walls he maintains, the precise control he’s cultivated over decades, none of it works against Marta’s teenage certainty.
“My responsibilities—” he begins.
“Will still be here when you get back,” she interrupts. “Unless you think the house is going to, like, crumble to dust if you take a day off?”
A muscle twitches in his jaw. “I am accustomed to certain parameters.”
“Parameters,” Marta echoes, rolling her eyes so hard I’m surprised they don’t fall out of her head.
“God, listen to yourself. You sound like a security manual, not a person.” She steps closer to him, fearless.
“Look, I get being scared. Believe me, I get it. But Elara’s offering you something most people would kill for, a chance to see the world with someone who actually gives a damn about you.
And you’re what? Hiding behind ‘parameters’? ”
The directness of her assault leaves Silas without his usual defences. For once, he doesn’t have a careful, measured response. Instead, he simply stands there, the book still suspended in his hands, his eyes revealing more vulnerability than I’ve seen since his recovery from Garrow’s attack.
“I should finish this another time,” he finally says, placing the book carefully on the nearest table. He leaves without another word, his usual silent grace momentarily abandoned for a retreat that borders on escape.
When the door closes behind him, Marta turns to me with a satisfied nod.
“He’ll think about it now.”
“Or he’ll retreat further into himself,” I counter, uncertain whether to be grateful or horrified by her intervention. “You were pretty harsh.”
She returns to our cataloguing table, picking up the letter opener again. “Sometimes harsh is what works. Especially for people who’ve built their entire identity around control.” She tilts her head, studying the silver artifact. “Sometimes you need someone to just call out your bullshit directly.”
We work in relative silence after that, the tension gradually easing as we lose ourselves in the methodical process of documentation.
By late afternoon, my spirits have lifted enough that I decide to spend the evening hour in the garden, watching as summer’s last flowers give way to autumn’s first bronze tinges.
The garden bench feels cool beneath me as dusk approaches, the stone soaking up the day’s last warmth.
I trace my fingers along the carved arm, feeling the generations of hands that have worn smooth paths in the granite.
Above me, the estate windows reflect the setting sun, turning each pane to molten gold.
I don’t hear Silas approach, I never do, but suddenly he’s there, standing at the edge of the stone path, his silhouette sharp against the darkening sky. His posture is rigid but determined, hands clasped behind his back in what I recognize as his attempt to appear calm despite inner turmoil.
“Tomorrow,” he says quietly, the single word carrying more weight than seems possible. “We could try… the next town over. Just for a few hours.”
Joy bubbles up so suddenly that it catches me off guard. I rise from the bench, moving toward him with careful restraint, afraid that too much enthusiasm might shatter his fragile resolve.
“Really?” I ask, unable to keep the hope from my voice.
He nods once, a quick, decisive movement. “Millfield has that small historical museum you mentioned once. It’s only twenty miles away.”
Each word sounds carefully rehearsed, as if he’s spent hours preparing for this moment.
I reach for his hand, giving him plenty of time to pull away. He doesn’t. Instead, his fingers curl around mine with tentative pressure, a small victory that feels monumental.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the simple phrase inadequate for the magnitude of what he’s offering.
His eyes meet mine, fear and determination warring in their depths. “For you,” he says softly. “With you.”
Silas sits in my car like he’s been strapped to an electric chair, back rigid against the leather seat, knuckles bloodless where they grip his knees.
The dashboard, with its array of blinking lights, digital displays, and mysterious buttons, might as well be mission control at NASA for how intensely he studies it, as if memorizing potential threats.
We’ve been on the road for exactly seven minutes, and he hasn’t exhaled properly since we passed through the estate gates.
I keep the radio off, and the windows cracked, afraid that too much sensory input might send him scrambling for the door handle. Twenty miles has never felt so far.
“You okay?” I ask, immediately regretting the pointless question. Of course he’s not okay. He’s terrified.
“Yes.” His voice is tight, controlled. A lie we both recognize.
The road curves through autumn-touched countryside, familiar territory transforming into the unknown with each mile marker we pass.
I watch Silas from the corner of my eye, noting how he tracks each passing car with the hyper vigilance of someone accustomed to identifying threats from shadow-draped corners.
“The museum has an exhibition on colonial architecture,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to desperately cheerful. “Might be interesting to compare their preservation techniques with ours.”
He nods, a short, jerky movement. “Historical context is valuable.”
The town appears ahead, Millfield, population 3,218 according to the weather-beaten welcome sign.
It’s almost painfully quaint, with a main street straight out of a Hallmark movie and buildings that wouldn’t have looked out of place a century ago, despite their updated storefronts.
I pull into a parking space across from the museum, a converted Victorian home with a small bronze plaque beside the entrance.
Silas doesn’t move when I shut off the engine.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say softly. “We can turn around right now.”
His jaw tightens, a muscle pulsing beneath the skin. “No. I want to try.” With visible effort, he releases his death grip on his knees and reaches for the door handle.
Watching Silas experience modern life is like watching someone from another century transported into the present.
He startles when the museum’s automatic doors slide open, his body instinctively shifting closer to mine.
Inside, the security cameras mounted in corners draw his immediate attention, his eyes tracking their movements with professional assessment.
When an interactive touchscreen display lights up as we approach, he actually flinches, one hand reaching reflexively for me before he catches himself.
“It’s just motion-activated,” I explain quietly, deliberately brushing my arm against his to let him know the contact is welcome. “It senses when someone approaches.”
He nods, absorbing this information with the intensity he brings to everything. “Efficient security measure. Non-invasive monitoring of visitor engagement.”