The Silas Problem
The collection space smelled like old brick and dry timber and the particular quality of air that belongs to rooms which have held many things over many years and absorbed all of it quietly into their walls.
It was a converted warehouse in the northern quarter, the kind of building the city had been tearing down for a decade until people with money and taste had started paying more for the bones of things than for new construction. High ceilings. Wide-planked floors, worn pale by time and foot traffic and sun coming through skylights that ran the length of the roof. Elara stood just inside the entrance and felt the space before she assessed it, which was always the right order.
Silas was already there. He stood near the far wall with a glass in his hand and his
