Chapter 7 #2
“None at all.” He turned back, and there might have been the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“But you said you've studied history. So, prove it.
Prove you're the scholar you claim to be. Prove you know this world well enough to survive in it.” He crossed his arms. “Because if you cannot—if this is all an elaborate lie and you're really just a Weaver spinning stories—then I'm wasting valuable time that could be spent hunting actual threats.”
“I study this time period. Victorian England, 1865 to 1892 specifically. Social structures, class systems, gender expectations.” I moved away from the bed, some of my confidence returning.
“I know how women were supposed to behave.
What they wore, how they spoke, what was considered proper.
I've read hundreds of letters, diaries, etiquette manuals from this era.”
“Reading about it and living it are quite different things.”
“I'm aware.” I met his gaze steadily. “But I'm not walking into this blind. I know the rules, even if I've never had to follow them myself. And I'm a fast learner when my life depends on it.”
Something shifted in his expression. Reassessment, maybe. Or grudging respect.
“You research this specific time period,” he said slowly. “Why?”
I hesitated. How much should I tell him? But he already knew about the disappeared people—I'd mentioned it during his interrogation.
“Because people vanished from the records during these years. Hundreds of them, across England. Just. . . erased, as if they'd never existed.” I watched his reaction carefully. “I've spent three years tracking the patterns. Trying to understand what happened to them.”
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “And what did you conclude?”
“That someone removed them deliberately. That it wasn't an accident or poor record-keeping or plague.” The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. “That someone in power wanted them forgotten.”
The silence that followed was heavy, charged with things neither of us was saying.
“And now you're here,” he said quietly. “In the exact time period where these disappearances occurred.”
“Yes.” I held his gaze. “Which is why I need to understand what Weavers are. What 'unraveling' means. Because I think—” I stopped, uncertain how much to reveal.
“You think what?”
“I think the people I was researching were Weavers. And I think this Unraveler—” My throat tightened. “I think he was the one who erased them. Wasn't he?”
He was quiet for a moment, processing. “Your research—do you have notes? Documentation?”
“No.” The word came out hollow. “Everything was in my flat. Three years of work—all of it is still there. In 2025.”
Or gone. Destroyed in whatever happened when the necklace shattered.
The thought made my chest tight.
“So, you have no proof.” His tone was flat. “Nothing to verify your claims about being a scholar.”
“I have my knowledge.” I gestured helplessly. “I can tell you about census records, parish registers, specific patterns of disappearance. I can describe Victorian social customs in detail because I've studied them for three years.”
“Knowledge can be fabricated. Or woven. Still, if you truly have spent years studying this time period, that will make the cover story more convincing.”
“How generous of you to see the upside of my life's work.” The sarcasm slipped out before I could stop it.
Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. “Get some rest, Miss Whitmore. Tomorrow will be. . . intensive.”
“Wait.” I stopped him before he could leave. “My watch. You saw it work. That has to prove something, doesn't it? That kind of technology doesn't exist here.”
“It proves you have an object I don't understand.” He paused at the door. “Whether you brought it from the future or created it through Weaver magic—that remains to be seen.”
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the dresses and the fading light and the unsettling realization that I'd just told him exactly what I'd been researching.
And now he knew I'd been trying to find them. Had that been a mistake? Showing my hand too soon?
I moved to the dress and picked it up, my mind racing. The fabric was heavier than I expected, the construction more complex. Buttons everywhere, layers I couldn't quite identify. This was going to be a nightmare to get on and off.
But it was also proof of commitment. If I was going to convince August—and everyone else—that I could pass as Adeline's cousin, I needed to look the part.
I held the dress up to my body, trying to imagine myself in it. Trying to imagine moving through Oxford's streets in this century, speaking carefully, behaving properly, every moment a performance.
Still, I'd meant what I told August. I wasn't walking into this blind.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent three years studying people who'd been erased from history, and now I was about to erase myself—bury Lily Whitmore the PhD student under the costume of Lily Whitmore the respectable cousin.
I set the dress down on the bed carefully and moved back to the window. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Below, gas lamps were being lit along the street, their warm glow pushing back the gathering darkness.
No electric lights. No cars. No phones or internet or any of the thousand small conveniences I'd taken for granted my entire life.
Just horses and carriages and people living lives I'd only ever read about.
And somewhere in this city, the Unraveler was hunting Weavers. Erasing them from existence just like they'd been erased from the records I'd studied.
Had any of them tried to resist? Had any of them known what was coming?
Or had they simply vanished one day, their lives cut short, their stories lost?
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, exhaustion washing over me again.
Tomorrow would come whether I was ready or not.
Tomorrow, I'd put on that dress and become someone else.
Would learn to navigate a world that wanted to erase people like the ones I'd spent three years trying to resurrect.
But tonight, I was still just me. Still just a historian who'd stumbled into her own research.
I had no idea if that would be enough to survive.