Page 95 of The Last Stitch

“And bring Miss Whitmore.”

I went very still. “Why?”

“Because I want to meet her.” His tone was casual, but nothing my father did was casual. “You've been keeping her in your house for weeks now. I'm. . . curious about this woman who appeared so conveniently in our city.”

The way he said “conveniently” made my stomach tighten.

“She's not—” I started.

“I'm not accusing her of anything, August.” He turned to face me fully now, and there was something calculating in his expression. “Yet. But surely you can understand my interest in a woman who knows so much about the disappeared. Who asks the kinds of questions she asks. Who seems to have such strong. . . opinions about our work.”

How did he know about that? Had someone reported our conversation at the tavern? Was Garrick not as discreet as I'd thought?

“See that she's properly dressed,” Elias continued. “Properly presented. I want to observe her. See what kind of woman has captured my son's attention so thoroughly.”

“She hasn’t⁠—”

“Don't lie to me, August. I know you better than that.” His smile was cold. “You've always been easy to read when you care about something. It's one of your weaknesses.”

The words stung more than they should have.

“Will that be all?”

“Actually, no.” He moved back to his desk, picked up a letter. “I received an interesting visit yesterday. From Constance.”

My jaw tightened. “What did she want?”

“To inform me that you'd ended things between you.” He looked up. “Rather abruptly, it seems. She was quite. . . distressed.”

“Constance and I were never serious.”

“No, but she was useful. Well-connected. The kind of alliance that benefits our work.” He set the letter down. “And you ended it for what? Boredom.”

“I ended it because it wasn't going anywhere,” I said.

“Hmm.” Elias didn't look convinced. “Well. Perhaps Miss Whitmore will prove equally useful, in her own way. We'll see at the dinner.” He paused. “Will Adeline Wolfe be accompanying you as well?”

“Adeline is Lily's companion. She goes where Lily goes.”

“Of course. How. . . proper of you.” His tone suggested he found nothing proper about it at all. “Then I'll expect all three of you. Friday evening. Don't be late.”

It wasn't a request. It never was.

“As you wish, Father.”

I left before he could dissect me further, find more weaknesses, more ways to remind me that I would never be enough. Never be the son he wanted. Never earn more than these cold commands and calculated touches.

The walk back through the house stretched longer than it should have. Past the portrait of my mother that hung in the hall—the mother I barely remembered, who'd died when I was five.

My fingers found the pendant at my throat. Hers. The only piece of her I had left.

I wondered if my father would have been different if the Weavers hadn't killed her. Would he have been more present, less consumed by vengeance.

I'd never know. And asking was pointless.

Outside, I sucked in a breath of cool October air, tried to shake off the oppressive weight of that house.

A dinner. At the Pembertons'. With every influential person in Oxford. And my father wanted Lily there.