Page 124 of Dark Night of the Soul

“Can we ever go home?” I heard the words before my mind said don’t say that.

He was quiet for a long moment. Then, “Yes.”

Not because it would be easy. Not because it would be soon.

Because he would make it so.

I knew that deep in my bones. I knew he’d tear through every obstacle to make it happen. As I knew he’d find a way to get my mother to me, to give me that moment where I could ask her what it was like for her.

What she’d felt.

What she’d survived.

“I contacted Silas last night,” he said.

I stiffened, my hand tightening around the mug. “You did?”

“I asked him to send someone he trusts to do a full sweep of the manor. To speak to Ophelia only.”

I nodded. Ophelia. He trusted her. So, did I. And it was better if neither Grace nor my mother were involved.

“Good,” I said. “When will we know?”

“Soon.”

The worst possible answer. He released me, disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later, the shower.

A few weeks ago, I might have been angry. But today, I was relieved. I’d asked him, last night, to handle it. And he was doing that—handling it. And I was grateful.

There was no call that day.

Or the next.

Or at least, if there was information from Silas, he wasn’t sharing it with me yet. I was, shockingly, okay with that. I let him handle it because the alternative was thinking too hard about what Silas might find at the manor.

I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think about a catalogue of devices—listening or watching—scattered throughout sacred, private rooms. I didn’t want to inventory those stolen moments. I didn’t want to think about what they heard or saw or knew.

Something had shifted between the two of us. A different level of trust. He trusted me not to freak out on him, and I trusted him to take care of the thing he was taking care of. Balance.

But I was also restless. The apartment complex was no fortress. No isolated safe house tucked away from the world. It breathed around us. Lived around us. I heard doors open and close down the corridor. Muffled voices. A burst of laughter. The clink of dishes. The lingering scent of someone’s dinner drifting through the air. People living their ordinary lives only feet away while horror pressed in on mine.

The next morning, as I stood on the balcony, I happened to look over the railing and saw a tidy, charming courtyard below. Cobblestoned. Potted plants, green and lush and well cared for, dotted the perimeter.

“There’s a courtyard,” I announced as if this was newsworthy.

“Yes,” he said, never looking up from whatever he was doing. Like he knew it was there all along.

I glanced back. He was staring at those damn floor plans again. Committing them to memory.

“I’m going down there.”

I started for the door as he looked up, about to question me. Then, “All right.”

He didn’t stop what he was doing to come with me. He let me go.

I headed down the stairs, found my way to the little courtyard. It wasn’t much bigger than a ten-by-ten square. There was a five-foot cinderblock wall that blocked out the view of the street and cars. But if I stood on tiptoe, I could see the Marmara Sea in the distance. Smell the salty air mixed with that blend of otherworld spices and the faint scent of the city itself.

And there were vendors selling their wares. A few food carts.