Page 22 of The Last Stitch

“That's very kind.”

“Mrs. Hartley,” I said carefully. “Does Mr. Hawthorne have many visitors?”

“His father calls regularly. His good friend Mr. Wolfe. And Miss Constance, of course.” Something in her tone suggested she didn't entirely approve of Miss Constance. “Otherwise, Mr. Hawthorne keeps to himself mostly. Very private.”

Miss Constance. A girlfriend? The thought sent an unexpected jolt through me that I immediately pushed aside.

“There now.” Mrs. Hartley set the teacup on the table. “You eat something and rest. You're safe here, miss. Mr. Hawthorne will see to that.”

Safe. That word again.

I didn't feel safe. I was trapped.

After she left, I ate mechanically, barely tasting anything. The tea was strong and bitter until I added sugar.

I moved back to the window, looking out at the street below. The sun was lower now, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. People moved along the cobblestones—women in long skirts and elaborate hats, men in dark suits and top hats. A carriage passed, horses' hooves striking a rhythm against the stones.

It was beautiful. Impossibly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

And completely wrong.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, exhaustion washing over me. My head still ached where I'd hit it. My body was heavy, worn down by fear and adrenaline and the sheer impossibility of everything.

The absurdity of it hit me all at once. Three years of researching disappeared people, and now I'd become one of them. Would anyone even notice I was gone? Would I become just another mystery, another gap in the records?

No.

The word formed fierce and certain in my mind.

I wasn't going to disappear. Wasn't going to become another forgotten name in someone's research project 130 years from now.

I was a historian. I knew how to research, how to find patterns, how to piece together stories from fragments. And right now, I was living in the middle of the biggest historical mystery I'd ever encountered.

If I was going to survive this—find a way home—I needed to understand what was really happening. Needed to learn everything I could about Weavers and witch hunters and whatever magic had brought me here.

Which meant cooperating with August Hawthorne.

Not because I trusted him. Not because I thought he was right. But because he was my only source of information. My only connection to whatever was happening in this time period.

I would play along with whatever he wanted. Would answer his questions and let him think he was extracting information from me.

But I would be extracting information right back.

Every conversation would teach me something. Every interaction would reveal more about this world, about Weavers, about what had happened to all those people I'd been researching.

And when I understood enough—when I knew what I was dealing with—I'd find a way to get home.

Or at least, I'd try.

I finished the tea and set the cup down with a soft click. I removed my Apple Watch and placed it on the small table. It was no use to me now. Just proof that 2025 existed somewhere, somewhen.

A knock at the door made me turn.

Not Mrs. Hartley's soft tap. This was firmer. More authoritative.

“Miss Whitmore.” August's voice carried through the wood. “May I come in?”

As if I had a choice. As if this wasn't his house, his room, his prison.