Page 120 of The Last Stitch

Father stepped closer, cane tapping marble, until he stood an arm’s length away from her.

“Bold tongue,” he murmured, tilting his head like a hawk considering a lark. “Some would call that courage. Others. . .” His gaze flicked to the newly lit chandeliers overhead, to the sooty stubs of wicks. “evidence.”

Every word Lily spoke was wrong. Too direct. Too defiant. The demure historian we'd rehearsed would have lowered her eyes, murmured apologies, deferred to male authority.

She was doing none of that.

And Father was noticing.

Lily’s jaw worked, but she said nothing.

Father extended a gloved hand—not to touch her, merely to hover above the space between them. The candle-light bled along the trim of his sleeve; in its glow the hourglass pendant beneath my waistcoat seemed to throb.

“You remind me,” he continued, “of my late wife. I can see why my son is so enamored by you.” His eyes sharpened. “Tell me, Miss Whitmore, have you ever sensed threads tug where no threads should be?”

A pulse of panic rippled through me and Lily’s shoulders stiffened. I stepped forward—I couldn’t help it—but Father’s cane angled across my path, barring me without touching me.

“The question is hers to answer,” he said, still watching Lily.

She drew a breath that sounded like it hurt. “I feel the tug of conscience, does that qualify?”

More scattered gasps; a few nervous titters that died under Father’s silence.

“A practiced deflection,” he observed. “Let us try plain speech. Are you Weaver-born?”

Across the hall a fan snapped shut; whispers spider-webbed behind gloved hands.

Lily met Father’s stare unflinching. “I was born to a woman who read me stories by candle-glow, not by witch-light. If that displeases you, unmake me with your evidence, not your insinuations.”

He studied her another heartbeat, then lowered his cane.

“Very well,” he said, silky and lethal. “Ambushes can be staged, torches quenched by human hands. I will not condemn you on suspicion—yet.” His gaze swept the assembly. “But know this, Miss Whitmore: truth is patient. It always surfaces.”

He pivoted to address the hall. “Seal the exits. No guest departs until the child is found. We will uncover whose treachery shamed this gathering.”

Hunters moved at once, steel flashing. Garrick leaned into Lily’s ear, whispering something reassuring—or warning.

Lily had just stared down the Unraveler and kept her tongue—and her secret—intact.

For tonight, that was a victory. Tomorrow would demand a cost.

And I would pay it.

CHAPTER 36

AUGUST

Wind knifed along the Landau roof, but inside the compartment, something sharper cut through the air. Garrick sat opposite me, boots braced, offering his handkerchief with that infuriating smirk. “Shall I hold it for you too, like a nursemaid? Dab your poor nose while you sulk?”

I swatted his hand away. Most of the bleeding had stopped, but my eyes hadn't left Lily since we'd climbed into the carriage. Every time the lantern swung, I caught her profile—jaw tight, hands clenched in her lap, that storm behind her eyes.

What did you do to the light, Lily?

I'd seen the panic flash across her face when the candles died. Seen her hands trembling before Garrick caught her arm.

The lie I'd spun for my father hung between us now, louder than wheel-iron on cobble

At my home, the hired carriage left us on the steps with nothing but the blue-black hush before sunrise. Frost glittered on the gravel; our breath plumed like ghosts.