Page 74 of Fire and Silk
We reach the main wing. He doesn’t say anything more. Neither do I.
Outside, just past the stone archway, I spot Mico standing under the shade of a cypress. A cigarette burns low between his fingers. His eyes catch mine immediately, scanning my face.
I step away from Severo’s touch just before we reach the threshold.
I force myself to.
But the ghost of his hand still lingers across my spine.
Mico straightens the second he sees me. His eyes dart from my face to Severo, then back again. He doesn’t speak. Just waits.
“Let’s go,” I say.
My voice doesn’t tremble, but everything else does.
Mico steps forward and places a hand gently on my shoulder, shielding me slightly as if afraid Severo might try to stop me. He doesn’t. Severo stays behind, still as stone, watching.
Mico guides me down the wide stone steps and through the open doors.
The warmth of the sun brushes my skin as we leave the house behind. The garden lies silent, all the roses suddenly looking like painted things. Beautiful. Unreal. I keep my gaze ahead, even though every part of me wants to glance over my shoulder. Just to see if he’s still standing there.
But I don’t.
I climb into the car.
Mico closes the door gently behind me, then circles to the driver’s side. He slides into the seat, glancing at me sideways.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he places his hand over mine. His palm is warm and calloused, fingers steady. A comfort. A promise.
I close my eyes for a breath as he starts the engine.
We pull away from the estate, the road rising and falling beneath us in quiet waves. The trees lining the drive grow thinner with each bend.
And still, I don’t look back.
Even though a part of me aches to.
Even though I can feel Severo’s gaze on my skin, long after he's out of sight.
****
The car ride back is quiet. Mico doesn’t touch the radio. I don’t ask him to.
The streets blur past the windows in soft streaks of orange and dull silver. A tram rattles by; lights flickering. Somewhere along Lygon, a group of students cross the road laughing—one of them playing a harmonica off-key. I watch them until they disappear in the rearview mirror.
Mico taps the code into the door lock when we reach the room. The sound is sharp .
He opens the door and steps aside to let me in first. The lights are dim. He’s drawn the curtains. The room smells faintly of his aftershave and the hotel’s linen spray. Familiar now, somehow.
He helps me sit at the edge of the bed, one hand still hovering near my back as if unsure whether I’ll collapse or bolt.
“I was so worried,” he says, pulling me gently into his chest.
His arms wrap around me. I don’t resist. I let myself lean against him.
