Between Shadows

Between Shadows: Chapter 02-B (The Nightjar Archive)

The basement archive was larger than she expected. Not sprawling, but organized in a way that hinted at long hours and careful hands. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bankers boxes and aging file folders. A pair of flat files stood near the back, one drawer half-open and overflowing with rolled blueprints.

Lorian crossed to one of the shelving units next to a long worktable already covered in a loose scatter of papers. He pulled down two labeled boxes and set them beside the others with a faint grunt.

“This is most of it,” he said. “There’s more in deep storage, but I figured we’d start with the low-hanging weird.”

Evelyn drifted closer, eyes skimming the boxes. One was marked: FILIGREE HOTEL – POST-FLOOD INQUIRIES. The other: PRESERVATION BOARD / DENIALS & DEVIATIONS.

She gave him a look. “Color-coded mystery and bureaucratic missteps. You really know how to charm a girl.”

“I try,” Lorian said, almost smiling as he peeled the tape from one of the lids. “But seriously—there’s good stuff in here. Letters from contractors who swore parts of the sub-basement didn’t exist until after the flood. A couple firsthand accounts that never made it into any official reports.”

She opened the second box, fingertips brushing old envelopes, brittle around the edges. Most were typed, but a few had handwritten notes in the margins, barely legible. She scanned one, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I told you,” he said, setting a folder aside, “I’ve been following this for a long time.”

“You weren’t kidding. It sounds almost personal.”

He didn’t respond right away. When she looked up, he was watching her—not with suspicion or expectation, just a quiet attentiveness. He looked away quickly, pulling over a clipboard and sliding a document free.

She nudged aside a manila folder and found a bundled stack underneath—bound loosely with faded blue ribbon, edges curling with age. A faint scent of ink and tobacco rose as she unwrapped it. The top letter was embossed with a familiar crest: the stylized L crowned in ivy.

She paused.

Then carefully unfolded the top page.

To Mr. Kelly,

Regarding the revised stonework and the delay in interior stairwell reinforcement—

Her eyes skimmed quickly. The tone was clipped but charming, the kind of letter that carried weight without needing to raise its voice. Silas Linwood’s name appeared at the bottom in an elegant hand, bold and unhurried.

She flipped to the next. And the next.

The letters weren’t dry correspondence—they were performance. Breezy, affable, and threaded with just enough pressure to get what he wanted while making the recipient feel like a co-conspirator. Half the notes read like inside jokes. The other half read like velvet-gloved threats. She skimmed another:

If you need further assurances, you might recall that our mutual friend still keeps the original variance letter in his private files. I’d hate to see it become a matter for public records. But I trust your discretion.

“How is he so—“ She stopped herself. “He’s not even subtle about it. And people just let him.”

Lorian, seated now across the table, didn’t look up. “That’s almost flattering.”

She gave him a look. “You know that’s not a compliment, right? Or do you collect dangerous men like some people collect vinyl?”

“Guilty. But I play them backwards.”

“God,” she muttered. “You really do have a thing for red flags.”

“Only a little,” he said, flipping through his own folder. “He was well-liked. The city loved him. So did most of the tradesmen. He paid generously, hosted ridiculous parties, and had the ego to match. What’s not to love?”

“So long as you smiled while twisting the knife.”

Lorian finally looked up. “Yeah. That’s sort of the Linwood signature.”

Evelyn shook her head. “These should have raised flags. There’s enough in here to suggest at least mild corruption.”

“They did raise flags,” Lorian said mildly. “But no one waved them. People were either too charmed or too indebted to care.”

She opened another letter. This one was dated just weeks before the flood. The tone was even more familiar—silken, deliberate. He spoke of delays as if they were weather, of reinforced lower-level construction like it were a personal favor.

Evelyn exhaled slowly. “So anyone who so much as touched the Filigree had to worry about extortion.”

“Friendly extortion,” Lorian said. “Silas was always polite about it.”

She met his gaze. “You say that like you knew him.”

He didn’t flinch, but something in his posture shifted—an ease he’d been wearing since the café breakfast gave way to something just slightly taut.

“I’ve read a lot of his letters.”

“None of these are postmarked,” she said quietly. “They’re private. Uncirculated. These were intercepted. They didn’t just turn up in some anonymous estate lot.” She waited, but Lorian didn’t speak. “You’d need a Linwood to get a hold of so many.”

Lorian looked at her for a long moment, then set his papers down with care. “You’re not wrong.”

Evelyn straightened, pulse ticking up.

“I got them from Faye Linwood.”

There it was.

“You’re joking. How do you know her?”

He shrugged. “We’ve had a few drinks over the years.”

“She gave you family letters?”

“She gave me letters and retained copies. Not particularly sentimental about old family dealings. Said there were a few people in the family who at least tried to filter him.”

“And she just let you walk out with them?”

“Only what she was willing to lose,” he said, leaning back slightly. “She didn’t give me the good stuff.”

Evelyn folded the top letter shut. “You said you were barred from the Filigree.”

“I am.” He sighed, rubbing his neck. “Just not by Faye.”

She paused, then smiled thinly. “Let me guess. The elusive Silas Linwood the hotel still claims is CEO?”

Lorian didn’t answer—just watched her.

Evelyn crossed her arms. “What’d you do to piss him off? Publish something he didn’t like? Or did you flirt with the wrong archivist?”

Lorian leaned back in his chair, watching her too closely to be casual. “I might’ve flirted with the right archivist at the wrong time. Jury’s still out.”

Evelyn didn’t look up right away. Her fingers rested on the edge of the letter, but she wasn’t reading anymore. “And here I was thinking you weren’t serious.”

“Should I be?” His grin faltered slightly.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

Lorian took a breath, as if about to say something, then let it go. “Well,” he said lightly, “before we spiral into emotional excavation, there’s still a missing quarter-inch of subfloor documentation I’ve been trying to track down.”

Evelyn blinked, then let out something halfway between a breath and a scoff. “A bold retreat.”

“Didn’t seem like the moment to press my luck.” He turned back to the table, gathering a stack of papers with more focus than necessary.

“It wasn’t the worst timing.” She couldn’t quite hide her smile.

Something in his posture eased, but he didn’t look up. He pushed a worn folder toward her. “This one’s mostly engineering notes. Some of it contradicts what the city has on file.”

Evelyn took it without comment. The smile had already faded, but something in her expression lingered—more open now, if only slightly.

She paused over a letter with handwriting that slanted too sharply to be casual. She held it at arm’s length. “Same signature,” she said after a moment, angling the page toward Lorian. “Same crest. Same tone, practically. This one’s dated 1902.”

Lorian didn’t glance up. “Silas didn’t really evolve much, stylistically.”

She frowned. “Except it’s not him. Not that version of him. Right?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Evelyn leaned her elbows on the table. “You do know him.”

Lorian tapped the corner of a blueprint flat against the table. “I know the name.”

“Come on.” She gestured with the letter. “We have stuff going back to the 1830s, and nothing changes. Same signature, same damn handwriting style. And the hotel’s current CEO—he’s listed as Silas Linwood, too. That’s not exactly a name you see every day.”

Lorian’s jaw shifted slightly, but he said nothing.