Page 77 of The Threads Between

“Minor details.”

Adeline's jaw worked. “When this is over, I'm going to kill you myself.”

“You'll have to wait in line behind Mira.”

“I'm not going to kill you,” Mira said flatly.

“Pity. Might be less painful.”

Marigold lay unconscious in the arms of a young Weaver who'd introduced herself as Claire. Her face was pale, peaceful, utterly spent. She'd held that shield until it shattered and took her consciousness with it.

Beatrice sat with her back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing carefully. The magical backlash from the shield's destruction had left her spent.

I pressed against August in the dim space, his body solid and warm, but trembling. The trembling wasn't from cold. It was from the effort of holding the corruption back.

The pendant pulsed against his chest—visible even through his shirt as a faint, rhythmic glow. Faster now than it had been. More insistent.

My hand found his. Squeezed. He squeezed back—grip weak but present.

We'd been traveling for hours.

The cart had left London behind, trading cobblestone for rutted country roads that jolted every bone. Fog gave way to open fields, hedgerows, and the occasional stand of bare trees stark against grey sky. The weak winter sun had climbed past its peak and begun its slow descent.

Garrick had lost consciousness twice in the first hour. Each time, Mira's magic dragged him back—golden threads weaving through torn muscle, knitting arteries that wanted to bleed, holding together what the knife had separated. Her face had gone paler with each working, sweat beading at her temples despite the cold.

“He's stable,” she'd said an hour ago, though her voice shook. “The bleeding's stopped. Internal damage is . . . minimal. He'll need rest. But he'll live.”

“You're certain?” Adeline had whispered.

Mira's jaw tightened. “Yes.”

She didn't say because I won't allow otherwise, but we all heard it anyway.

Now Garrick slept, breathing steadily, color slowly returning to his face. Mira sat beside him, one hand resting on his chest, monitoring. Making sure her working held.

The cart rolled on. Past villages too small to have names. Past fields lying fallow for winter. Past the occasional farmhouse with smoke curling from chimneys—ordinary people living ordinary lives, unaware that fugitives passed within yards of their doors.

“How much farther?” Adeline asked.

“Not much farther,” the driver called back.

August's trembling had worsened.

“Talk to me,” I said quietly. “Stay present.”

“I'm here.” But his voice was thin. Distant. “Just . . . harder to hold.”

I pressed closer against his side. The physical reminder that he wasn't alone in this.

Beatrice hadn't opened her eyes in an hour. She just sat with her back against the wall, breathing carefully, conserving what little strength remained for what came next.

Marigold stirred once, made a small sound, then settled again into unconsciousness. Claire adjusted the blanket someone had tucked around her.

We were four Weavers, two sympathizers, and one corrupted Threadbreaker, held together by nothing but stubborn refusal to break.

The cart lurched over a particularly deep rut. Garrick's eyes opened briefly.

“Still here, beautiful,” he mumbled.