Chapter 6
AUGUST
Iclosed the door to the guest chamber and stood in the hallway. My hand still on the handle. She was either the most talented liar I'd ever encountered, or she possessed knowledge that could change everything we understood about magic and time. Either way, she was valuable.
And valuable things could be exploited.
Fear makes people unpredictable. Anger makes them careless. And if I could keep her off-balance, cycling between hope and despair, comfort and threat, I'd break her eventually.
Everyone breaks, eventually. The trick is finding the right pressure and making them think they chose to bend.
I forced myself to move, boots striking the floorboards with measured precision as I descended the stairs. Every hunter's instinct I possessed screamed that I'd made a mistake—that leaving a potential Weaver alive and unsecured in my own house was the height of foolishness.
But I needed answers. And corpses didn't talk.
The study door was open. Garrick sat in my chair, boots propped on the desk, a glass of my whiskey in his hand. He looked up as I entered, and whatever he saw in my face made him swing his feet down.
“Well? What is she?”
“I don't know.” I moved to the sideboard and poured myself a drink. “Which is precisely the problem.”
“Weaver?”
“She claims she's not.” I took a drink, letting the burn ground me. “She claims she's a scholar. From Oxford. Just not our Oxford.”
Garrick's expression shifted to confusion. “What does that mean?”
“She says she's from the year 2025.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Then Garrick laughed—short and sharp. “Well. That's creative, at least.”
“She has a device on her wrist that I've never seen. Glows when touched. Shows symbols and numbers that make no sense.” I set the glass down. “Her clothing is made of materials I can't identify. The construction is unlike anything I've encountered. And the way she speaks—”
“Could all be elaborate Weaver craft,” Garrick interrupted. “August, you can't seriously be considering—”
“I'm not considering anything except intelligence gathering.” My voice hardened. “But if she does possess knowledge of time manipulation, if she's connected to objects that can move people through centuries—that's worth more than Ashby's execution.”
Garrick studied me carefully. “You're not planning to deliver her to your father.”
“Not yet.” I took another drink. “Not until I've extracted everything she knows.”
“Extracted.” He repeated the word with deliberate emphasis. “That's a clinical way to put it.”
“Would you prefer I call it what it is?” I met his gaze. “Interrogation. Manipulation. Whatever methods necessary to get the truth.”
“August.”
“She's a potential Weaver, Garrick. Or she's something even more dangerous—someone with knowledge of time manipulation.” I set down my glass with careful precision. “Either way, she's the most significant intelligence asset we've ever captured. And I will use her accordingly.”
“Use her.” Garrick's expression was unreadable. “Not protect her. Use her.”
“Did I stutter?”
“No. But you're talking about that woman upstairs like she's a resource to be exploited.”
“Because that's what she is.” The words came out cold. Certain. “Until she proves otherwise, she's a threat who possesses information. My job is to extract that information by whatever means necessary. If she's useful enough, she lives. If not. . .” I let the implication hang.
“And if she really is just a lost scholar who stumbled into the wrong century?”
“Then she dies having served a purpose. That's more than most prisoners get.”
Garrick was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward.
“Let's say I believe that's your only motivation.
Let's say this is purely strategic.” His eyes narrowed.
“How exactly do you plan to hide a woman in your house? Your father visits regularly. Constance is here almost daily. Servants talk. One glimpse of her strange clothing, one word about her odd manner of speaking—”
He was right, and we both knew it. My home offered privacy, but it wasn't a fortress. Father could arrive unannounced at any time. And Constance would notice.
I pushed that thought aside.
“Which is why she needs a cover story,” I said. “A legitimate reason to be here that won't raise suspicions.”
“Such as?”
“Your sister.”
Garrick's expression immediately shifted to suspicion. “What about Adeline?”
“Her home is being remodeled, isn't it? That's what you said last week—something about the guest rooms being reconstructed.”
“Yes, but—”
“So, Adeline has company. And I, being a gracious friend, offered to put up her and her distant cousin who's come to visit.” I met his gaze steadily. “Lily Whitmore, from. . . where would be sufficiently remote?”
“You want me to lie for you.” Garrick's voice was flat. “To involve my sister in deceiving the Unraveler.”
“I want you to help me buy time.” I moved away from the window. “A few weeks, that's all I need. Long enough to extract the truth from her. If she's a Weaver, I'll kill her myself. But I'll do it after I've learned everything she knows.”
“And if she's not a Weaver? If she really is from the future?”
“Then we'll deal with that when we understand it.” I poured another drink. “But either way, she can't be a mystery woman appearing in my house. She needs a background, a story, a reason to be here that satisfies Constance and my father's questions without drawing scrutiny.”
Garrick was silent, working through the implications. “Adeline will be furious.”
“Adeline is always furious.”
“She'll demand to know everything. Why you're hiding this woman. What your real intentions are.” He studied me carefully. “And she won't believe this is purely about intelligence gathering.”
“Then we tell her the truth.” I met his gaze. “Because if she doesn't play along, if she exposes Lily as anything other than your cousin—”
“Your father will unravel her before you can blink.” Garrick finished grimly. He was quiet for another moment. “Then the story needs to be airtight. Lily would have to know details about Adeline's life, about our family history. One inconsistency and the entire thing falls apart.”
“Which means we need to teach her.” The thought of spending hours with her, coaching her on how to speak, how to behave, extracting information while building a convincing cover. “She'll need to learn quickly.”
“She'll need to be smart enough to maintain the deception under pressure.” Garrick's expression was grave. “One slip, one moment where she forgets herself—”
“She won't.” Though I had no basis for that certainty beyond instinct. “She's clever. I can see it in her eyes. And she'll cooperate because she knows her life depends on it.”
“Will she?” Garrick leaned back.
He was right to question it. But the way she'd held that pitcher, the flash of anger in her eyes when I'd questioned her story. The way she’d met my gaze—steady, unflinching—didn’t belong to a terrified prisoner. It belonged to someone used to commanding attention.
“She'll cooperate,” I said with more confidence than I felt, “because the alternative is worse than defiance. And she's smart enough to recognize that.”
Garrick studied me for a long moment. Then he stood, moved to refill his glass. “You ever hear about Margaret Thornfield?”
My frown deepened. The report had been sparse—Weaver threat neutralized, minimal casualties, commendation for Garrick's swift action. Clean. Simple. The kind of operation I'd carried out myself.
“The official version was. . . simplified,” he said, reading my expression with unsettling accuracy.
“Truth is, I spent three days with my target before I was supposed to eliminate her. Margaret Thornfield, grandmother of four, her magic no stronger than striking a match. But she knew things—about a larger network, about coordinated attacks being planned.”
The firelight carved shadows into his face, making him look older than his twenty-six years. Older and wearier. Like a man who had stared into an abyss and found it staring back.
“I could have followed protocol. Quick, clean, final. But something about her. . .” His mouth curved in a rueful almost smile. “She reminded me of my grandmother. So I listened. I took the time.”
I frowned. “You delayed the execution.”
“I extracted intelligence.” He met my eyes. “Every instinct screamed I was betraying protocol. But that three-day delay prevented seventeen coordinated attacks. Led us to three covens we never would have found otherwise.”
“Father approved?”
“Eventually. Once the results proved the delay was strategic, not sentimental.” Garrick's expression was steady. “Sometimes taking time isn't weakness, August. Sometimes it's the smart play. Just make sure you know which one this is.”
The words settled over me, validation and warning in equal measure.
“What about Ashby?” I asked quietly.
“I'll handle Ashby.” Garrick's jaw tightened. “Find a way to delay it. Buy you a few days, at least.”
“And if Father insists?”
“Then we improvise.” He moved toward the door, then paused.
“I'll talk to Adeline tonight. Get her agreement before this goes any further. But August. . .” He turned back.
“Whatever you're doing with that woman, don't let it compromise your judgment. Weavers are excellent at making you believe what they want you to believe.”
“I'm aware.”
“Are you?” He studied my face. “Because you've never hidden a prisoner before. Never lied to your father. And you've certainly never risked this much for intelligence gathering.”
“Which proves how valuable she might be.”
“Or how dangerous.” Garrick's expression was impossible to read. “Just make sure you're using her, August. And not the other way around.”
He moved toward the door, then stopped, his hand on the frame. “One more thing.”
“What?”
“Constance.”
The name landed like a stone in still water. I kept my expression neutral. “What about her?”
“She's been here twice this week already. She'll notice if suddenly a woman living in your house.” Garrick turned back, his gaze steady. “Even with the cousin story, Constance will ask questions. Make assumptions. And you know how she gets when she feels her territory is threatened.”
“Lily isn’t—” I stopped myself. “It's not like that.”
“I know it's not. You know it's not.” He crossed his arms. “But Constance won't see it that way. She'll see competition, real or imagined. And she'll either make a scene or go running to your father with concerns about this mysterious cousin who's appeared so suddenly.”
He wasn't wrong. Constance had been. . . persistent lately. More possessive. Dropping by unannounced, making comments about our future, about expectations. Things I'd been carefully avoiding addressing.
“What are you suggesting?”
“I'm suggesting this would be an excellent time to end things with her.” Garrick's tone was matter-of-fact. “Cleanly. Before she becomes a complication you can't afford.”
“We're not—” I paused, choosing my words carefully. “It's not a formal arrangement.”
“No, but she thinks it could be. Your father thinks it should be.” Garrick's expression was knowing. “And the longer you let it continue, the more complicated it becomes. Especially now, with a woman living under your roof—prisoner or not.”
I moved to the window, tension coiling in my shoulders. He was right, of course. Constance had been a. . . convenience. Nothing more. Daughter of one of Father's associates, well-bred, appropriately connected. The kind of match that made sense on paper.
But there was no warmth there. No spark. Just expectation and duty, wrapped in propriety.
“She'll be upset,” I said finally.
“She'll survive.” No sympathy in Garrick's voice. “Better to handle it now than have her discover Lily and create a scandal. Or worse—report her suspicions to your father.”
The thought sent ice through my veins. Constance, wounded and vindictive, telling Father about the strange woman in my house. The questions that would follow. The investigation.
“I'll handle it,” I said.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“August.”
“I said I'll handle it.” My voice came out sharper than intended. “You're right. It needs to be done. But I have more pressing concerns at the moment than Constance's feelings.”
Garrick studied me for a long moment. “Just don't wait too long. The last thing you need is a jealous woman with access to your father's ear.”
After he left, I stood alone in the study, watching afternoon fade toward evening. Another complication. Another loose thread that needed tying off.
Constance would have to be dealt with. Carefully. Definitively.
But not tonight. Tonight, I had a prisoner to manage and a father to deceive. Everything else could wait.