Page 34 of The Threads Between

Fragile.

“Happy birthday, Marigold,” I said.

She set the books down carefully and threw her arms around me—fierce and sudden and full of a trust almost too heavy to bear.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “For remembering. For . . . everything.”

I held her tightly. This brave child who had survived things no child should, who still believed in stories and birthdays and the possibility of happy endings.

“We’re going to come back,” I said softly. “From the opera house. All of us. I promise.”

The words slipped out before I could weigh them—bright, reckless, the kind of promise that burns the person who makes it.

Marigold pulled back, searching my face as if testing whether promises could be trusted. Then she nodded, satisfied, and reached for her books again.

Around us, the others began talking—Mira fussing over dinner, Syra teasing Adeline about cake, laughter rising warm and real into the low ceiling.

I stood there watching them, memorizing the sound of it. The candlelight on their faces. Two days from now, everything would be decided.

But for now, the world held its breath—and in that fragile pause, we celebrated an eleven-year-old girl.

CHAPTER 11

AUGUST

The evening light through my window had turned the color of old bruises—purple and grey and sickly yellow where the sun tried to break through London’s fog. I’d been standing here for an hour. Maybe more. Time kept slipping.

But one thought stayed sharp, cutting through the numbness.

That had been Lily yesterday.

The connection didn’t lie. Couldn’t lie. The face had been wrong. Every detail my corrupted memory tried to grasp had slipped away. But she'd been right there. In London of all places.

Twenty feet away.

My hand pressed against the window glass, cold and solid and real. The only real thing left.

Why would she be in London?

The question circled in my mind, hunting for answers I couldn’t quite reach. She’d survived Oxford. Fled with the others. Should be anywhere but here. Anywhere but the city where tomorrow⁠—

The demonstration.

My stomach dropped.

Elias's words from days ago surfaced. You’ll unravel her completely. And for extra flair, you will search the audience for Weavers and erase them as well.

Search the audience.

Oxford had swept through the entire city. Elias’s corrupted magic, amplified through my power, had reached every corner. Every street. Every building. Had found every Weaver within miles and erased them.

All except one.

Because the magic recognized her, some distant part of me whispered. Because even corrupted, even being used as a conduit, your Threadbreaker power knew what she was. Knew destroying her would mean destroying yourself.

But that had been three months ago.

Three months of the pendant eating away at everything I was. Three months of corruption spreading like rot through wood. Three months of forgetting and numbing and disappearing piece by piece until I barely recognized my own face in the mirror.