Page 33 of The Last Stitch

“Nothing. I—” I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to process what had just happened. The girl was already gone, melted into the crowd like smoke. “I just felt dizzy for a moment.”

His eyes narrowed, scanning the street for threats. For a terrifying moment, I thought he might have seen her. Might have recognized her from the forest.

But his gaze swept past the doorway where she'd been without pausing.

“You're still recovering from the head wound,” he said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. “We should get you back.”

“No.” The word came out too sharp. I softened my tone. “I mean—I'm fine. Really.

He studied me for a long moment, clearly suspicious. But then he nodded and started walking again, his hand still hovering near my elbow. Protective. Possessive.

I didn't look back at the doorway. Didn't give any sign that I'd seen anything unusual.

But my mind was racing.

The girl was here. In Oxford. And she wanted to meet me.

Come alone.

Which meant she knew August was a hunter. Knew he was dangerous.

And she was taking a massive risk reaching out to me anyway.

The question was, why?

Everyone looked purposeful, going about their lives without any idea that a Weaver child was hiding in their midst, using the very magic they feared to send messages into the mind of a time traveler from the future.

August's presence beside me was like a physical weight. The way he adjusted his pace to match mine. The careful distance he maintained now.

He was a hunter. I was potentially his prey. And now I had a secret that could get me unraveled.

Because there was no way I could tell August about the girl. That a Weaver had just contacted me telepathically without him questioning everything—my story, my intentions, whether I was working with them all along.

But I couldn't ignore the summons either.

The girl had saved me in the forest. Had created those illusions that let me escape. And now she wanted to meet.

I had to know why. Had to know if these Weavers were as bad as August said they were. Even if it meant betraying August's trust and putting myself in even more danger than I was already in.

Tomorrow. Nine.

I had less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to escape August Hawthorne's house—and hope the world outside was any less deadly than the one within.

CHAPTER 10

AUGUST

The walk back had been silent—not because of any shared discomfort, but because I was too busy cataloguing her tells to waste time on conversation. That stumble on the street. The way her eyes had gone distant. The calculated lie that followed.

She'd seen something. And she thought I hadn't noticed.

I'd catalogued every micro-expression: recognition, shock, concentration. Then the calculated decision to deceive me, smoothing her features into false confusion. She was good—better than most prisoners I'd interrogated. But I'd been trained to read deception since I was twelve years old.

The question wasn't whether she'd lied. It was what she'd seen that scared her enough to hide it from me.

Back at the house, I gave her a cursory tour—drawing room, dining room, morning room—watching her absorb every detail with that historian's focus. She asked occasional questions about architecture and household management, playing the role of curious cousin perfectly.

Now we stood in my study, the one room I hadn't intended to show her.