Page 116 of The Last Stitch

The mask slammed across his face but the Weave bucked at the force of it: grief, denial, fury stitched into one brutal knot.

“Stop.” The word struck like a gauntlet. “Do not rewrite my mother to fit your tale. She was innocent. She was murdered. I will not let you twist that into⁠—”

“Into what? The truth?” My breath snagged. “You never questioned any of it. Your father turned his grief into a weapon. He's been hunting the very thing your mother was.”

The pendant pulsed between us, proof of all his father’s lies.

The terrace doors banged open; Garrick’s easy drawl sliced the tension.

“There you are. Speech is starting—your father wants you front-and-center.”

“It will wait,” August barked, not looking away from me.

Garrick lifted both brows. “Tell him yourself, then. I’m not volunteering.”

A curse tangled behind August’s teeth. He closed his fist around the pendant’s chain, the hourglass burning a mark into my palm until I let go. His other hand wrapped, unrelenting, around my forearm.

“This isn’t finished,” he said, low and lethal. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about my mother.”

Threads snapped bright between our joined skins—promise or warning, I couldn’t tell. But I knew this: the hourglass had chosen its moment, and neither of us would leave this night unchanged.

August pushed us through the crowd. By the time he slammed me into the chair, the soup course had chilled to a gelatinous skin. The hum of conversation blended with the clinking of silverware against fine porcelain.

The murmur of conversation quieted as a man at the head of the room clinked his glass. The polished wood of his chair scraped softly against the floor as he pushed back from the table. His presence commanded immediate attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honor to introduce tonight’s esteemed guest. A man without whom this city and our world—would be far less secure. A man who has dedicated his life to ridding us of those who would threaten our order.” The speaker turned, gesturing toward the figure beside him. “Please, raise your glasses in honor of the Unraveler himself.

The room lifted their glasses in eerie unison.

But I couldn’t breathe.

He stood at the head of the room like a relic cast in iron—tall, silver at the temples, polished and precise down to the set of his shoulders. And now that I looked closely, I saw it: the echo of August in the set of his jaw, the cut of his gaze. The weight of his authority pressed on the room like gravity, and when his eyes swept the table, people stilled as if fearing they might be unmade by the glance.

August sat down next to me but didn’t move.

“This evening,” the Unraveler said, patient as rot, “we celebrate not only progress, but preservation. A city safeguarded. Order restored. And the continued triumph of truth over treachery.”

A hush fell like dust.

“Which is why I am delighted to share with you tonight a rare and sacred act. An Unraveling.”

A cold bloom unfurled in my chest.

“Bring her in.”

The words slid across the room, unhurried. Two men stepped through a side door—dragging a girl between them.

Marigold.

Her dress was torn. Her lip split. Blood trailed down her temple.

My chair scraped back—I was standing before I realized I'd moved. Raw power flashed down my wrist—threads hissing to life, white-hot—then guttered, strangled by the spike of panic. It stung like my skin was being seared from the inside.

Garrick caught my arm. “Don’t,” he whispered.

She was barely conscious, but her eyes—god, her eyes—found mine pleading not for help but forgiveness.

“Tonight,” the Unraveler continued, “we rid the world of one more infection. One more thread corrupted.”