Page 5 of Fire and Silk
And then, without another word, he walks away.
The sound of his footsteps fades into the stone around us, swallowed by centuries of silence.
I remain seated. Rosary in one hand. Deed in the other. And the past breathing down my neck.
Chapter One - Lira
Australia – 43 kilometers northeast of Melbourne
The gravel keeps catching my heel. I shift again, trying not to wince, but the shoe’s already done its damage. I can feel the blister blooming beneath the skin like punishment. My toes are curled inside shiny and cruel cheap patent leather.
The dress I’m wearing looks expensive from a distance. Up close, it tells the truth—fabric that snags on chipped nails and smells faintly of dust from the store rack. I keep tugging at the side seam like it’ll magically fall right. It won’t.
I bring the cigarette to my lips. My fingers tremble a little—just enough to make the flame waver when I light it. I inhale sharply. The smoke hits the back of my throat and burns. Good. At least it’s something I can feel.
The mansion looms ahead, silent and watching. I’ve been here before, but tonight it feels… different. Bigger. Like it’s grown teeth. The lights inside glow warm, but the windows stay black. I can’t see anyone watching me. That doesn’t mean they’re not.
The door creaks open.
A man steps out—tall, thin, polished. His suit probably costs more than everything I own put together. His eyes land on the cigarette first. He doesn’t hide the way his mouth tightens.
“You may come in, Miss Falco.”
His voice is smooth. Like glass. Or a knife.
I force a smile, awkward and thin. “Right. Sorry.”
I drop the cigarette and crush it under my heel. The gravel grinds beneath me, but the sound feels louder than it should. Embarrassing.
The man watches the whole thing with a look I can only describe asdisgust dressed up as manners. Then he pulls something from his coat pocket—a small silver spray canister—and mists between us. Then me.
I blink at the scent. It clings to my skin like a veil I didn’t ask for.
“House protocol,” he says. Cold. Impersonal.
I nod—no, I sort of half-bow, stupidly—and move toward the entrance before I make it worse. My heartbeat’s up. I try not to look like someone who notices.
Inside, the air shifts. Cool, expensive. The kind of air that tells you to mind your posture.
The floors are marble—so polished I catch flashes of myself as I walk. Chandelier above. They tinkle faintly like they’re laughing.
The last time I came here, I didn’t let myselfseeany of this.
Now it’s unavoidable. The ceiling arches high above, coffered and carved with strange patterns—leaves and snakes and roses tangled into each other. Paintings line the walls, eyes stern, frames heavy. Everything smells like money and lavender. Not real lavender. The kind that comes bottled, processed, curated.
I don’t know where to look, so I look straight ahead. My legs are stiff. I can already feel sweat collecting at the base of my spine, but I don’t dare reach back and adjust the dress.It’s clinging tighter now. I should’ve worn something else. I should’ve—
I watch the back of his suit as he walks ahead of me, stiff and upright. His posture says this is routine. That I’m forgettable.
My shoes pinch harder with every step. I try to focus on the sound they make. But my mind drifts.
It used to be so loud in my head. Music. Notes. Endless rehearsals. I’d fall asleep hearing arpeggios loop under my dreams. I practiced until my fingers split. I missed parties. Missed sleep. Missed being a teenager.
All for the violin.
I was good.God, I was good.
Got into the Sydney Conservatorium on a full scholarship. The dream school. The place where prodigies are turned into legends. They told me I had something rare. Called me “a storm in silk.” I used to believe them.
