22. Shadows in Daylight #4
Silas moves closer to the documents, his eyes scanning the legal language with surprising fluency.
“They’re claiming the estate’s historical modifications were never properly permitted,” he observes, voice dangerously quiet.
“That the hidden passages and security features constitute unauthorized structural changes that invalidate its historical designation.”
“Precisely.” Maeve nods, a hint of approval in her expression at his assessment.
Maeve slides a thick folder toward me, revealing a letterhead I recognize instantly.
“Pritchard,” I say, the name itself leaving a bitter taste.
“Also known as the vultures who gutted that hospital in Westbrook and turned it into luxury condos while preservationists were still filing appeals.”
I lean against the table, the polished wood cool beneath my palms. “What’s their endgame? They can’t seriously think they’ll get control of the property.”
“They don’t need control,” Silas answers before Maeve can, his voice taking on that distant quality that signals he’s thinking strategically.
“They just need to force structural modifications that would eliminate the estate’s defensive capabilities.
Make it impossible for us to continue offering sanctuary. ”
Maeve nods again. “If they can invalidate the historical designation, they can force compliance with modern building codes that would require opening up sealed passages, installing fire doors in currently hidden sections, and documenting floor plans filed with the county…”
“Everything that makes the estate a sanctuary would be compromised,” I finish, understanding dawning with sickening clarity.
Silas straightens, decision made. “We need to accelerate the security upgrades on the north and west perimeters. Limit access to essential personnel only. Move our current guests to the inner rooms with secondary escape routes.” He’s already mentally retreating into defensive isolation, the wall between him and the world rebuilding brick by brick before my eyes.
“No,” I say firmly, the idea forming even as I speak. “That’s exactly what they want, for us to hunker down, become secretive, look like we have something to hide.”
Maeve raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by my contradiction of Silas’s security assessment.
“What do you propose?” Silas asks, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his posture.
“We do the opposite,” I reply, moving around the table to face them both.
“We invite people in. Not just anyone, but preservationists, architectural historians, and documentary filmmakers. We showcase the estate’s historical significance so publicly that any attempt to force modifications becomes a cultural outrage. ”
“Exposure as protection,” Maeve murmurs, thoughtfully tapping her pen against her chin. “It has merit. Their legal strategy relies on operating through bureaucratic channels with minimal public scrutiny.”
Silas’s expression tightens. “You want to open the estate to strangers? After everything that’s happened?”
“Not all of it,” I clarify quickly. “We control the narrative. We decide which parts to showcase and which to keep private. But we make this place too publicly valuable to touch.”
“We can’t hide forever,” I add more gently, holding his gaze. “Secrecy made sense when the threats were supernatural rituals and corrupt officials operating in shadows. But this is a legal battle in the public eye. Different weapons for different enemies.”
Something shifts in his eyes, not agreement, not yet, but consideration. The strategist in him recognizes the tactical sense even as the guardian bristles at the exposure.
“I’ll need to review their complete filing,” Maeve interjects, gathering her documents. “I’ve already filed a preliminary response that buys us thirty days. Use that time wisely.” She slides a business card across the table.
“This is Katherine Winters, the best architectural historian at Eastland University. If you’re serious about the public approach, start with her.”
As Maeve packs her materials, her gaze lingers on Silas longer than usual, reassessment evident in her scrutiny. “Millfield, hmm?” she murmurs to me as she passes. “Interesting development.”
When the front door closes behind her, Silas and I stand in silence, surrounded by the afternoon light streaming through windows our ancestors designed to illuminate while protecting those within.
“You really believe going public is the right approach?” he finally asks, his voice carefully neutral.
“I do,” I answer honestly. “Different times call for different strategies. Your ancestors understood that the passages were built when secrecy was the only protection possible. Now we have other options.”
He nods slowly, processing. “I’ll need to reconfigure certain security protocols if we’re allowing authorized visitors.” The fact that he’s considering implementation rather than arguing against the concept entirely feels like progress.
“We’ll do it together,” I assure him. “Nothing happens without both of us agreeing on the specifics.”
He studies me for a long moment, something shifting in his expression. “There’s something I want to show you,” he says finally. “Would you wait in the library? I need approximately one hour.”
The unexpected request catches me off guard. “What is it?”
“A project I’ve been working on,” he replies, uncharacteristically evasive. “Please.”
Curiosity piqued, I agree, watching as he disappears up the grand staircase with purposeful strides.
In the library, I attempt to distract myself with Maeve’s legal documents, but my mind keeps returning to the day’s strange contrasts, Silas venturing beyond the estate for the first time, only to be confronted with a threat that tempts him right back into isolation.
The old clock in the corner ticks away, counting down to whatever’s coming next.
Through the windows, the sun’s going down, turning our garden gold and stretching shadows across all those paths where Silas and I have walked and talked and sometimes just been quiet together.
I run my fingers over the books we fixed up, some leather, some cloth, feeling the little bumps of their titles under my fingertips like braille I can almost read.
When the library door finally opens, Silas stands there with an expression I can only describe as nervous determination. In his hands is a length of midnight-blue silk that I recognize as having once adorned one of the curtains.
“A blindfold?” I ask, eyebrows rising.
He nods, approaching with measured steps. “I’ve been working on something for several weeks. I’d like it to be a surprise, if you’ll permit me.”
The request is so uncharacteristically whimsical coming from Silas that I find myself smiling despite the day’s tensions. “Lead on, then.”
He slips the silk over my eyes, his fingers grazing my temples with a touch so light it makes my breath catch.
Everything goes dark, and suddenly I’m all ears and nose and skin, catching the clean cedar smell of him, the soft rhythm of his breath, the warmth coming off his body as he stands so close I could lean forward just an inch and be against his chest.
He leads me out of the library like he’s done it a thousand times in the dark, which he definitely has.
“Step up,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, then “doorway on your right” as his hand presses gently at the small of my back.
We climb stairs, wind through hallways I could normally navigate blindfolded, except now I actually am blindfolded, and the house I know so well becomes a thrilling mystery map under his guidance.
The blindfold heightens everything, cool drafts marking doorways, echoes revealing room sizes, that squeaky floorboard Silas always avoids.
His hand presses firmly against my back, fingers splayed possessively.
Scents shift as we walk, fresh paint, beeswax, and new fabric mingling with familiar old wood.
His grip on my hand tightens with each step, and I realize with surprise that Silas, my ever-confident guardian, is nervous.
“Three steps forward,” Silas murmurs, his voice close to my ear. “Then stop.”
I follow his instructions, stepping forward until he tells me to stop.
My bare feet sink into something soft and yielding where there had only been worn hardwood before.
The air changes too, no longer the familiar mustiness of the hallway, but something alive with lavender and cedar that fills my lungs when I breathe deeply.
“Ready?” he asks, his fingers moving to the knot of the blindfold.
“More than ready,” I reply, unable to keep the excitement from my voice.
The silk slips off my eyes, and I blink in the soft golden glow washing over everything.
My brain short-circuits for a second. This room I know so well looks completely different yet somehow the same, like walking into your childhood home after someone’s given it a magical makeover while keeping its soul intact.
“Silas,” I breathe, turning slowly to take in the full scope of what he’s created. “What did you do?”
Our bedroom has been completely transformed.
The crown moulding that was crumbling last week now gleams overhead, all those twisting vines and flowers picked out in gold that winks in the warm light.
The walls, God, the walls, where there had been water stains and curling paper, now there’s this incredible deep blue fabric that makes the room feel like it’s wrapping around us.
Like we’re underwater but somehow still breathing just fine.
“How did you—” I start, moving deeper into the room, my fingers trailing over surfaces that blend centuries of craftsmanship with contemporary function. “When did you find the time?”
“While you were meeting with contractors for the east wing,” Silas explains, remaining by the doorway, watching me discover each element with undisguised pleasure in my reactions. “Rafe helped. And Dr. Rao advised on the ergonomic aspects.”