Page 39 of At the Mercy of Midnight
Silas barely glanced at the depictions of his ancestors, brushing over his father’s entirely. He turned to look at her. A piece of her dark hair had fallen from her braid, brushing at her cold-stained cheek, her head tilted up to take in the arches above. His finger twitched, aching to push it back behind her ear.
He cleared his throat. “They prefer ‘legacy of scholarly excellence’.”
She scoffed, fingers reaching up to brush away the stray tendril.
He sighed softly and averted his eyes.
Silas directed her up the staircase and further into the estate, which was split into several wings. One led towards a dimly lit study filled with leather-bound books, artefacts encased by glass, and a lifetime of memories that Silas had tried hard to forget. He skipped the study, heading for the bedrooms past the formal dining hall. She dipped her head in beyond the wide-open double doors curiously, taking in the long table made of dark wood, stretched out beneath a skylight that lit the room with cold sunshine through frost-laced glass.
“Finley, I knew you were rich,” she said quietly, as though afraid to be heard by the ghosts of his ancestors, “but this isrichrich.”
“Yeah,” was all he said, pulling the doors to the dining room closed so she was forced to straighten and retreat into the hallway. She raised a brow but didn’t argue as he led her away.
“I suppose you got everything you ever wanted?”
Silas frowned, glancing at her sidelong. He expected a mocking expression, but he found something more calculated, like Amelia might sense that the home held a sadness for him that he wasn’t articulating. She was baiting him into speaking on it.
Not ready to expose those parts of him, he gave the response she would have expected from him a week ago. “Sure did. The kids called me ‘Silas the Spoiled’. Quite fitting, yes?”
Before Amelia could respond, he stopped before a set of handsomely engraved doors and gestured at them. She looked at Silas quizzically. “Is your mother in there?”
He laughed. “No, and I don’t know where she is, but my mother won’t be…up to chatting until later. It’s best if we wait for supper before we start asking questions.”
Clearly disappointed, she glanced at the doors. “Oh, alright.”
“I don’t know how long you’ll be staying,” Silas said, gesturing again at the iron door handles, “but this will be your room, if it suits.”
Amelia swung the doors open, stopping at the threshold to take it in.
The bedrooms of the estate were in the east wing, each chamber unsurprisingly large and carrying the same sombre elegance as the rest of the house.
A canopied bed with midnight-blue blankets stood against the far wall, its four posts carved with the Finley ouroboros. A large fireplace, dark and cold, took up most of the wall opposite the bed, a plush red couch set before it. A heavy desk was positioned beneath a frosted window which overlooked the city.
There was an extra set of thick blankets neatly folded at the foot of her bed, along with an extra set of gloves, a winter cloak, and a scarf.
Amelia had wandered over, trailing her fingers across the soft bedding before she spotted them. She looked over her shoulder at him. “Did you tell your staff I needed these?”
Silas leaned against the doorframe. “I simply mentioned that you’re from a climate where winter means you wear a long-sleeved shirt.” He should have known his mothers’ staff would be so prompt with his whispered request. Frustratingly useful, they were.
Amelia reached out to touch the cloak made of rich, dark fabric. “I’d protest, but my fingers are unreasonably cold right now, so…” She plucked up a glove and examined it, fingers smoothing over the material. He watched her drift to the window and peer out the misty glass.
“It’s…so cold and devoid of colour,” Amelia murmured, Silas straining to hear from his position in the doorway. “It’s also strangely beautiful.”
A smile ghosted across his face, her whispered words echoing his own thoughts. The smile faded before Amelia turned to face him.
“I’ll let you settle in,” Silas said, pushing away from the doorframe. “If you need anything, there’s an intercom by the door where you can request staff.” He tapped on the device that connected almost every room within the estate.
Amelia’s mouth opened, but she closed it quickly. His lips twitched, certain she was holding herself back from saying something snarky about having staff at his beck and call.
“Thanks,” was all she said.
Impressed with her unusual self-control, he nodded and backed away, pulling the doors closed until they clicked softly, and he could release the long breath of discomfort that he had been holding in.
When Silas knocked a few hours later and entered, he found Amelia curled up on the couch beneath a fur blanket, the fire crackling in the hearth and a pot of tea sitting on the table before her.
A book propped on her lap, she looked decidedly cosy.
Silas paused and had to swallow the sense that she belonged there, in his old home. A ridiculous notion given her general dislike of him.
