Page 89 of The Last Stitch

“It wasn't a request.” His eyes locked on mine, daring me to refuse. “You want to know about this city? About history? I'll show you.” A pause, weighted. “Unless you're afraid to be alone with me.”

Adeline's warning look burned into the side of my head. This was a trap. This was dangerous. This was exactly what I shouldn't do.

But my pride wouldn't let me back down. “Fine. Where are we going?”

“You'll see. Be ready in an hour.” He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and headed for the door.

The moment he was gone, Adeline rounded on me. “Lily. This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

“And you're going anyway.”

I met her eyes. “If I refuse, it'll confirm everything he's thinking. I don't have a choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

“Do I?” I stood, smoothing my skirts with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. “He's a hunter, Adeline. If I act like I have something to hide, he'll never stop digging until he finds it. The only way through this is to keep playing the part.”

“And what part is that?”

“The historian who has nothing to fear because she has nothing to hide.”

Even as I said it, I knew how thin that lie was wearing. How much longer could I look August in the eye and pretend I wasn't exactly what he hunted?

“Just be careful,” Adeline said quietly. “Remember who he is.”

“I know who he is.” I headed for the door, then paused. “That's what makes this so hard.”

We turned onto a street I recognized—Broad Street, lined with bookshops and the grand facades of buildings. When we stopped in front of a massive stone building with a distinctly medieval appearance, my heart skipped. Since this had all transpired my world finally righted. I was at home.

“The Bodleian Library.” August climbed out, offered his hand. “I thought you might like to see inside.”

I finally looked at him, saw the calculated interest in his eyes. “You brought me here to test me, didn't you? To see if I'm really from the future?”

A slight smile tugged at his mouth. “Something like that.”

I couldn't tell if this was an interrogation disguised as a kindness, or a kindness disguised as an interrogation. With August, it was always hard to tell.

August spoke quietly to the guard at the entrance, and we were waved through without question.

“Mr. Hawthorne. Of course. Right this way, sir.”

As we entered, the familiar scent hit me first—old paper, leather bindings, dust and time and preservation. It was exactly the same smell I'd known in 2025. Some things, apparently, didn't change across centuries.

“This way,” August said, but I was already moving.

Down the corridor, past the porter's desk, toward the entrance to⁠—

I stopped myself, realizing I'd been about to navigate without being shown. August had noticed too, one eyebrow raised.

“Sorry,” I said. “Habit. In my time, I could probably walk this place blindfolded.”

“Then by all means.” He gestured forward. “Lead the way.”

I hesitated, then did. Up the stone staircase, the worn steps exactly as I remembered them. When we emerged into Duke Humfrey's Library, I stopped dead.

“It's exactly the same,” I breathed.