Page 125 of Dark Night of the Soul

What a strange city this was.

I’d traveled hunting the relics, but I’d never stayed in one place long enough to stop and listen to the heartbeat of a place. We’d been stuck in this particular safe house for a couple of weeks.

I was weary.

Weary of the running, the hiding, the wondering if I would ever get to return home.

I turned back to the courtyard, glanced up to see the balcony we shared overlooking the place. And it gave me a sense of comfort to know he was right above my head.

The space was small, but it was enough to let me move, to stretch my muscles. So, I did.

Anything to stop imagining what Silas was finding. Burning off all the dread. Exhausting myself so I didn’t fall apart. Because that was next.

We existed in a strange suspension. The waiting was the worst thing of all.

The next morning, he disappeared to prowl the streets—was he replenishing our stash of whiskey?—and I stayed behind. I stood in the center of the small living room across from the open balcony doors—this was my favorite thing—and decided to try yoga.

I’d seen Ophelia do it a few times, but I didn’t know the poses like she did. The names, yes. But not the how. I thought if I could… make it up it would quiet my mind.

When he returned, he found me lying in the middle of the floor. Arms resting by my side. Staring at the ceiling.

“What are you doing?” He peered down at me with confusion and amusement.

“Yoga,” I said.

His brows drew together. “That doesn’t look like yoga.”

“I call this pose I’m bored senseless,” I said.

His mouthed curved for only a brief moment before he managed to contain it. Then he held his hand down to me.

“Come on.”

I grabbed it as he hoisted me to my feet. He held a brown paper bag in his other arm.

“What’s that?”

“For later.” He placed it on the small kitchen table then crossed the room and closed and locked the balcony doors. “Let’s go.”

“You’re letting me out of my prison?”

“It’s not a prison.”

“It feels like it.”

“We’re going for a walk,” he said, ignoring my grousing. He nudged me out the front door, closed and locked it.

He was efficient. I liked that. Then he took me by the hand, led me down the stairs, and into the city.

The street greeted us with noise and motion. Voices overlapping in languages I didn’t know, the hiss of traffic, the clatter of dishes from a café tucked into the corner of the block. The air smelled like bread and exhaust and spice, warm and alive in a way that made it impossible to forget the world was still turning.

We walked without a destination. Past shop windows crowded with hanging lamps and textiles. Past fruit vendors calling out prices, children darting between adults, an old man perched on a low stool sipping tea like he had nowhere else to be. Life unfolded around us, unbothered by what we carried.

Kincade kept our pace steady, his hand firm around mine. I focused on the press of his fingers, the rhythm of our steps, the simple act of moving forward together. For a few blocks, the weight in my chest eased.

It wasn’t freedom.

But it was something.