Page 18 of The Last Stitch

“She claims she's not.” I took a drink, letting the burn ground me. “She claims she's a scholar. From Oxford. Just not our Oxford.”

Garrick's expression shifted to confusion. “What does that mean?”

“She says she's from the year 2025.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Then Garrick laughed—short and sharp. “Well. That's creative, at least.”

“She has a device on her wrist that I've never seen. Glows when touched. Shows symbols and numbers that make no sense.” I set the glass down. “Her clothing is made of materials I can't identify. The construction is unlike anything I've encountered. And the way she speaks⁠—”

“Could all be elaborate Weaver craft,” Garrick interrupted. “August, you can't seriously be considering⁠—”

“I'm not considering anything except intelligence gathering.” My voice hardened. “But if she does possess knowledge of time manipulation, if she's connected to objects that can move people through centuries—that's worth more than Ashby's execution.”

Garrick studied me carefully. “You're not planning to deliver her to your father.”

“Not yet.” I took another drink. “Not until I've extracted everything she knows.”

“Extracted.” He repeated the word with deliberate emphasis. “That's a clinical way to put it.”

“Would you prefer I call it what it is?” I met his gaze. “Interrogation. Manipulation. Whatever methods necessary to get the truth.”

“August.”

“She's a potential Weaver, Garrick. Or she's something even more dangerous—someone with knowledge of time manipulation.” I set down my glass with careful precision. “Either way, she's the most significant intelligence asset we've ever captured. And I will use her accordingly.”

“Use her.” Garrick's expression was unreadable. “Not protect her. Use her.”

“Did I stutter?”

“No. But you're talking about that woman upstairs like she's a resource to be exploited.”

“Because that's what she is.” The words came out cold. Certain. “Until she proves otherwise, she's a threat who possesses information. My job is to extract that information by whatever means necessary. If she's useful enough, she lives. If not. . .” I let the implication hang.

“And if she really is just a lost scholar who stumbled into the wrong century?”

“Then she dies having served a purpose. That's more than most prisoners get.”

Garrick was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward. “Let's say I believe that's your only motivation. Let's say this is purely strategic.” His eyes narrowed. “How exactly do you plan to hide a woman in your house? Your father visits regularly. Constance is here almost daily. Servants talk. One glimpse of her strange clothing, one word about her odd manner of speaking⁠—”

He was right, and we both knew it. My home offered privacy, but it wasn't a fortress. Father could arrive unannounced at any time. And Constance would notice.

I pushed that thought aside.

“Which is why she needs a cover story,” I said. “A legitimate reason to be here that won't raise suspicions.”

“Such as?”

“Your sister.”

Garrick's expression immediately shifted to suspicion. “What about Adeline?”

“Her home is being remodeled, isn't it? That's what you said last week—something about the guest rooms being reconstructed.”

“Yes, but⁠—”

“So, Adeline has company. And I, being a gracious friend, offered to put up her and her distant cousin who's come to visit.” I met his gaze steadily. “Lily Whitmore, from. . . where would be sufficiently remote?”

“You want me to lie for you.” Garrick's voice was flat. “To involve my sister in deceiving the Unraveler.”