Chapter 9 #2
“Isn't it?” I gestured toward where the woman had been dragged away. “What did she do? What specific crime did she commit that deserves being erased from existence?”
“I don't know her specific case—”
“Exactly. You don't know. You don't ask. You just accept that she's a Weaver, she's guilty, therefore she deserves to be unmade.” My anger rose despite my efforts to control it. “That's not justice. That's genocide.”
His jaw clenched. “You're applying modern morality to a situation you don't understand.”
“I'm applying basic human decency to watching someone be dragged through the streets like an animal!”
“And what would you have me do? Stage a rescue? Fight the constables? Get us both arrested and questioned? Because that woman—she's lost. But you? You I can still save. If you'll stop being foolish long enough to let me.”
The words hit like a slap. Because he was right, and I hated it. Hated that survival meant complicity. Hated that I was standing here arguing instead of helping. Hated that the only thing keeping me alive was this man who represented everything I'd spent three years trying to figure out.
“In my research. I found patterns. Seventy-three villages where people disappeared. Hundreds of names erased from records. And you know what the really interesting part is?”
“What?” His tone was flat, dismissive—like he was already bracing to tune me out.
But I didn’t stop.
“The disappearances accelerated over time. Starting with a few here and there in the 1860s. By the 1880s, entire families were vanishing. Not because the Weavers got more dangerous—because the hunters got more efficient.”
I took a step forward, jabbing a finger into his chest. “How many innocent people died in that efficiency drive? How many children lost their parents? How many families were torn apart?”
His jaw clenched. His eyes flared.
“How many more would have died if we'd done nothing?” He stepped in close, matching my aggression. “You want to talk about children losing parents? My mother was killed by Weavers. Destroyed by the same power you're so eager to defend.”
The raw pain in his voice—sudden, unguarded—stopped me cold.
“I'm sorry,” I said quietly. “But that doesn't justify—”
“It justifies everything.” He started walking again, faster this time. “You want to understand why we hunt them? Because they're predators. Because they destroy lives and families and everything they touch. Because someone must stop them.”
“Even if it means becoming just as monstrous?”
“You stand there with your modern sensibilities and your academic distance, judging us for doing what's necessary to protect innocent lives. But you've never had to choose between mercy and duty. To live with the consequences of letting a Weaver go free.”
“And you've never had to live with the consequences of systematic erasure!” I shot back. “Do you even keep count? Do you know how many people you've helped erase from existence? Do their names haunt you, or are they just acceptable losses in your holy war?”
The silence that followed was deafening. We stood there on the street corner, too close, both of us breathing hard, the space between us crackling with anger.
“Every single one,” he said finally, barely a whisper. “I remember each name. Every face.”
He looked away, jaw working. “So don't presume to lecture me about consequences, Miss Whitmore. I live with them every day.”
This wasn't academic for him. This wasn't historical research or philosophical debate. This was his life. His trauma. His impossible choices made real.
“I'm sorry,” I said quietly, and meant it. “About your mother. About all of it. But Mr. Hawthorne—that doesn't make it right. It just makes it tragic.”
“Perhaps.” He started walking again, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders tense. “But tragic doesn't change what needs to be done.”
We continued our walk in silence through Oxford's morning streets.
Women in walking dresses, men in dark suits, a street vendor calling out something I couldn't quite catch.
Everyone looked purposeful, going about their lives without any idea that the world they knew would be completely transformed in just a few decades.
I wondered how my world would be different if Weavers had survived.
I was still processing our argument, the rawness of his admission about remembering every name, when I saw her.
A small figure huddled in a doorway ahead, dressed in rags too thin for the October chill. Dark blonde hair hung in tangles around her face, and she held out a grimy hand to passersby who ignored her with practiced ease.
But I recognized her immediately.
The girl from the forest. The one with starlight eyes who'd told me to run.
My steps faltered. August's hand immediately touched my elbow—steadying or warning, I couldn't tell.
“Keep walking,” he murmured. “Don't stare or they won’t stop begging for coin.”
But the girl had already seen me. Our eyes met across the crowded street, and recognition flashed in her gaze. She didn't move. Didn't call out. Just held my gaze for a heartbeat, and then—
The noise of the street dimmed, like sound sinking underwater. Then words bloomed in my mind—bright, impossible, sliding into my consciousness like they'd always been there.
Tomorrow. Nine. Old bell tower near the forest. Come alone.
I stumbled, gasping. August's grip tightened on my elbow, keeping me upright.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing. I—” I pressed a hand to my temple, trying to process what had just happened. The girl was already gone, melted into the crowd like smoke. “I just felt dizzy for a moment.”
His eyes narrowed, scanning the street for threats. For a terrifying moment, I thought he might have seen her. Might have recognized her from the forest.
But his gaze swept past the doorway where she'd been without pausing.
“You're still recovering from the head wound,” he said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. “We should get you back.”
“No.” The word came out too sharp. I softened my tone. “I mean—I'm fine. Really.
He studied me for a long moment, clearly suspicious. But then he nodded and started walking again, his hand still hovering near my elbow. Protective. Possessive.
I didn't look back at the doorway. Didn't give any sign that I'd seen anything unusual.
But my mind was racing.
The girl was here. In Oxford. And she wanted to meet me.
Come alone.
Which meant she knew August was a hunter. Knew he was dangerous.
And she was taking a massive risk reaching out to me anyway.
The question was, why?
Everyone looked purposeful, going about their lives without any idea that a Weaver child was hiding in their midst, using the very magic they feared to send messages into the mind of a time traveler from the future.
August's presence beside me was like a physical weight. The way he adjusted his pace to match mine. The careful distance he maintained now.
He was a hunter. I was potentially his prey. And now I had a secret that could get me unraveled.
Because there was no way I could tell August about the girl. That a Weaver had just contacted me telepathically without him questioning everything—my story, my intentions, whether I was working with them all along.
But I couldn't ignore the summons either.
The girl had saved me in the forest. Had created those illusions that let me escape. And now she wanted to meet.
I had to know why. Had to know if these Weavers were as bad as August said they were. Even if it meant betraying August's trust and putting myself in even more danger than I was already in.
Tomorrow. Nine.
I had less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to escape August Hawthorne's house—and hope the world outside was any less deadly than the one within.