Page 89 of The Threads Between

“A bond like yours,” Beatrice said quietly, her gaze on our joined hands, “is not common. In all my years, I have never seen it. Yet the old texts speak of threads that resist cutting. Connections woven so deeply that even death cannot fully unmake them.”

August's attention sharpened through the bond.

Beatrice smiled faintly. “Time is a thread like any other, child. The Weavers do not experience it the way ordinary people do. We know it can be stretched, looped, cut, and rewoven.”

I thought of how I had arrived here. A freak accident—or perhaps one that had gone exactly right. Centuries collapsed into a single moment of displacement.

Beth leaned back, gaze drifting to the stars visible through the branches.

“The Weave is vast,” she said quietly. “Larger than England. Larger than this century. Larger than any single lifetime can contain. What we do here, tonight—it matters. But it is also a single thread in something far greater.”

I looked at August. Firelight caught the planes of his face, the exhaustion and relief and something new that lived behind his eyes now.

The bond gave me the shape of his thoughts. Not the words, but the texture of them. He was thinking about patterns. About choices. About what it meant to be the first of something in a world that had existed for millennia before him.

“Tell me something,” I said softly, just to him.

He turned. Waiting.

“How do you feel? Now that you know?”

He considered the question and didn't rush to answer.

“For the first time in my life,” he said finally, “I'm not afraid of what I am.”

“What are you afraid of?”

His hand tightened on mine.

“Losing this,” he said. “Losing you.”

“Then don't.”

He smiled—small, real, the kind of smile that transformed his whole face.

“Never.”

The celebration wound down slowly, the way good things do.

People drifted toward sleep. Some stayed in the alcove, wrapped in blankets, unwilling to leave the sacred ground. Others made their way back through the trees toward the farmhouse, guided by lanterns and the fading warmth of the fire.

Diana appeared at the edge of the clearing, arms crossed, expression caught between exasperation and reluctant fondness.

“You've all been through a war and you're sleeping on cold stone,” she announced. “There are beds. With mattresses. I made them up hours ago.”

No one moved.

Diana sighed. “Fine. At least take more blankets. I'm not explaining to anyone how you survived magical warfare only to die of cold.”

She retreated, muttering about “stubborn Weavers” and “no sense at all,” but not before depositing an armful of additional blankets near the fire.

Garrick had fallen asleep against his log, Mira dozing beside him with one hand still resting on his chest. Monitoring him even in sleep.

Marigold was curled against Claire, face peaceful in a way it hadn't been since Syra died.

August and I remained where we were, watching the fire burn low.

The bond hummed between us—steady, present, alive. I was still learning its edges. Where I ended and he began. How to tell my own thoughts from the echo of his.