Chapter 7
LILY
The light had shifted to deep gold by the time I finally stopped pacing.
August had left hours ago—or what seemed like hours, anyway.
Time moved strangely when you were trapped in a room that belonged to the wrong century.
I'd spent the interim alternating between the window and the bed, my mind churning through everything that had happened, everything he'd said, everything I needed to understand.
Work together.
His words echoed in my mind, cold and certain. Not a threat, exactly. More like a statement of fact. As if my cooperation was inevitable, my compliance assured.
He had no idea how wrong he was.
I sank onto the bed, my legs finally giving out. The room had grown cooler as afternoon stretched toward evening, shadows lengthening across the floorboards.
I looked down at my Apple Watch. The screen was dark again. I tapped it, and it flickered to life, showing the time and date in familiar glowing numbers.
Wednesday, October 1, 2025. 2:34 PM.
Then faded to black as the battery drained.
“Shit.” My only connection to my time was officially gone.
Mrs. Hartley had said October 1892. Which meant I'd traveled back exactly 133 years.
Why October? Why 1892 specifically?
I thought about my research. The patterns of disappearance I'd been tracking. Most of them had occurred between 1865 and 1892, with the heaviest concentration in the late 1880s.
People erased from history. Possibly Weavers, if August was to be believed.
Gran's necklace had brought me here. To this specific time. To the exact moment when these disappearances were happening.
It couldn't be coincidence.
Gran had known something. Trust your instincts, even when logic tells you otherwise.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, fighting the urge to scream. Or cry. Or both.
Think, Lily. Think like a historian.
I was in 1892 Oxford. . . August Hawthorne was one of these hunters. And he thought I might be a Weaver.
The question was: was I?
I'd never done anything magical. Never seen threads or manipulated fate or created illusions. I was just a PhD student who spent too much time in archives and not enough time sleeping.
But Gran's necklace had brought me here. And that little girl in the forest had done something impossible.
What if there was a connection? What if Gran had been trying to tell me something about who I was? What I could do?
No. That was insane. I was overthinking this because I was scared and alone and completely out of my depth.
I needed information. Needed to understand what was really happening here, what Weavers were, what this “unraveling” meant.
And the only source of information I had was the man who'd just locked me in this room.
A knock at the door made me jump.
I stood and moved to the door. The housekeeper carried a tray laden with a teapot, cup, and a plate of sandwiches and small cakes.
“Mr. Hawthorne thought you might be hungry,” she said, setting the tray on the small table by the window.
My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since. . . , when? Yesterday morning? In 2025?
“Thank you,” I managed.
Mrs. Hartley poured the tea with practiced efficiency. “I've also brought some items that might make you more comfortable. A nightgown, some basic toiletries.”
“That's very kind.”
“Mrs. Hartley,” I said carefully. “Does Mr. Hawthorne have many visitors?”
“His father calls regularly. His good friend Mr. Wolfe. And Miss Constance, of course.” Something in her tone suggested she didn't entirely approve of Miss Constance. “Otherwise, Mr. Hawthorne keeps to himself mostly. Very private.”
Miss Constance. A girlfriend? The thought sent an unexpected jolt through me that I immediately pushed aside.
“There now.” Mrs. Hartley set the teacup on the table. “You eat something and rest. You're safe here, miss. Mr. Hawthorne will see to that.”
Safe. That word again.
I didn't feel safe. I was trapped.
After she left, I ate mechanically, barely tasting anything. The tea was strong and bitter until I added sugar.
I moved back to the window, looking out at the street below.
The sun was lower now, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.
People moved along the cobblestones—women in long skirts and elaborate hats, men in dark suits and top hats.
A carriage passed, horses' hooves striking a rhythm against the stones.
It was beautiful. Impossibly, heartbreakingly beautiful.
And completely wrong.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, exhaustion washing over me. My head still ached where I'd hit it. My body was heavy, worn down by fear and adrenaline and the sheer impossibility of everything.
The absurdity of it hit me all at once. Three years of researching disappeared people, and now I'd become one of them. Would anyone even notice I was gone? Would I become just another mystery, another gap in the records?
No.
The word formed fierce and certain in my mind.
I wasn't going to disappear. Wasn't going to become another forgotten name in someone's research project 130 years from now.
I was a historian. I knew how to research, how to find patterns, how to piece together stories from fragments. And right now, I was living in the middle of the biggest historical mystery I'd ever encountered.
If I was going to survive this—find a way home—I needed to understand what was really happening. Needed to learn everything I could about Weavers and witch hunters and whatever magic had brought me here.
Which meant cooperating with August Hawthorne.
Not because I trusted him. Not because I thought he was right. But because he was my only source of information. My only connection to whatever was happening in this time period.
I would play along with whatever he wanted. Would answer his questions and let him think he was extracting information from me.
But I would be extracting information right back.
Every conversation would teach me something. Every interaction would reveal more about this world, about Weavers, about what had happened to all those people I'd been researching.
And when I understood enough—when I knew what I was dealing with—I'd find a way to get home.
Or at least, I'd try.
I finished the tea and set the cup down with a soft click. I removed my Apple Watch and placed it on the small table. It was no use to me now. Just proof that 2025 existed somewhere, somewhen.
A knock at the door made me turn.
Not Mrs. Hartley's soft tap. This was firmer. More authoritative.
“Miss Whitmore.” August's voice carried through the wood. “May I come in?”
As if I had a choice. As if this wasn't his house, his room, his prison.
“Yes,” I said, straightening.
The door opened, and he entered with that same controlled precision I'd seen in the woods.
He'd attempted to restore his formal armor—sleeves rolled back down, waistcoat buttoned—but the effect was incomplete.
His dark hair was still disheveled, falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, less controlled.
He was objectively handsome. Dangerously so. The kind of man who could move through a ballroom with perfect grace, then chase you through a forest without breaking stride. Victorian gentleman on the surface, predator underneath.
I hated that I noticed. Hated that even fear couldn't make me blind to the way he moved, the intensity in those hazel eyes, the controlled power in every gesture.
He carried something draped over his arm—fabric in an array of colors.
“We need to discuss your situation,” he said, closing the door behind him. Not quite shutting me in, but close enough. “And what happens next.”
“You mean my imprisonment.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “Your survival, Miss Whitmore. Which depends entirely on how well you can follow instructions.”
My stomach dropped.
He moved further into the room, set the fabric—dresses, I realized—on the back of a chair with careful precision. “I've bought you time, Miss Whitmore. Seven days, perhaps more if I'm persuasive. But that time comes with conditions.”
“Conditions.”
“Requirements.” He turned to face me fully, and the coldness in his eyes made my breath catch. “You will answer every question I ask. Completely. Honestly. You will demonstrate your knowledge of this time. You will prove—convincingly—that you are who you claim to be.”
“Or?”
“Or I deliver you to the Unraveler, who will unravel you before sunset.” He said it matter-of-factly, like discussing the weather. “And trust me, you don't want that.”
“And after you have everything? After I've told you every secret, answered every question? What then?”
He studied me for a long moment, something calculating in his expression. “Then I decide if you're worth keeping alive.”
The words hit like a slap. No protection. No reassurance. Just cold honesty about exactly how much power he held.
“So I'm useful or I'm dead.”
“Precisely.” But then something shifted in his expression—not quite softening, but.
. . changing. “However, being useful requires more than just information. You cannot remain a mystery woman locked in my guest room. People will ask questions. My father will hear rumors. And then your usefulness ends rather abruptly.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I want you to become someone else.” He gestured at the dress. “A distant cousin to Miss Adeline Wolfe. She's the sister of my associate, Garrick—the man who was with me in the forest. Adeline's home is being remodeled, so I've graciously offered to house you both until the work is complete.”
I stared at him. “You want me to pretend to be someone's cousin.”
“I want you to convince everyone you are someone's cousin. a difference.” He moved to the window, looking out at the darkening street.
“One slip—one moment where you forget yourself, speak too modern, move too freely—and questions will be asked. Questions that lead to my father. Questions that end with your death.”
“No pressure then.”