Chapter 25
LILY
Iwoke to sunlight stabbing through my eyelids and a headache that was divine punishment. For a disorienting moment, I couldn't remember why my head was pounding or why my mouth tasted like regret and cheap whiskey. Then the memories came flooding back in mortifying clarity.
The tavern. The whiskey. August.
Tell me you'd choose me over your duty.
Oh god.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, as if I could physically push the memories back into the dark. What had I been thinking? Challenging him like that. Sitting so close. Asking him to—
I'd practically thrown myself at him. In public. In front of Garrick and Adeline. I'd defended Weavers, questioned his mission, and then asked him to prove he'd choose me over everything he'd been raised to believe.
And he'd hesitated.
That hesitation was almost worse than a refusal. Because it meant I'd made him doubt. Made him want. Made him dangerous.
I swung my legs out of bed and caught sight of my reflection. My hair was a disaster—tangles and what looked like a small twig. Perfect. I looked exactly how I felt.
I couldn't avoid him forever. This was his house. Sooner or later, I'd have to face him and pretend last night hadn't happened. Pretend I didn't feel the heat of him when he leaned closer. Pretend I didn't know exactly what it meant when he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
I dressed carefully in a high-collared dove gray dress. Armor of respectability. Proper. Untouchable. Then I squared my shoulders and headed downstairs to face him.
The smell of coffee hit me first—rich and dark and exactly what I needed. I followed it like a bloodhound to the breakfast room, hoping against hope that August had already left for work or hunting or wherever witch hunters went when they weren't tormenting historians.
He was sitting at the table.
I froze in the doorway. For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. He looked up from his newspaper, and our eyes met.
He looked. . . unfairly composed. No dark circles. No haggard expression. Just August, perfectly put together in a charcoal waistcoat and crisp white shirt, drinking coffee like he hadn't spent last night drinking himself stupid.
“Good morning,” he said, over his cup.
“Morning,” I managed, and forced myself to walk to the sideboard. Coffee. I needed coffee before I could handle this conversation.
I poured a cup with hands that shook only slightly, added sugar, and turned to find him watching me. Really watching me, with that intense hunter's focus that made me feel like prey.
I sat as far from him as the table allowed. Sipped my coffee. Tried to look anywhere but at him.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
“We need to talk about last night,” August said.
“There's nothing to talk about. We were drunk.”
“That's not an answer.”
“It's the only answer you're getting.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. Bad idea. Because he was looking at me like he could see straight through all my carefully constructed walls.
“Where were you yesterday?” he asked. “Before the tavern?”
I took a deliberate bite of toast I didn't want. “Out. I told you.”
“With pine needles in your hair and mud on your skirts.” He leaned forward slightly. “Where, specifically?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes. Because you came back looking like you'd been crawling through the woods. And then you sat across from me and defended Weavers like—” He stopped himself, jaw clenching.
“Like what?” I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.
“Like you're one of them.”
The words hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous.
My heart stuttered. I forced myself to stay calm, to keep my expression neutral even as panic clawed at my throat.
“I'm a historian,” I said carefully. “I defend historical accuracy. Not monsters.”
“You called them 'just people.'” His eyes never left my face. “You said I might be hunting innocents.”
“I was drunk. And angry.” I set down my coffee cup before it rattled and gave me away. “Forget I said anything.”
“I will not.” His jaw clenched. “And you knew I couldn't. That's why you said it.”
Our eyes locked. The air felt too thin, too charged. I couldn't look away even though every instinct screamed at me to run.
“What are you, Lily?” he asked quietly.
The question landed like a physical blow. For a moment, I couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the terror of being seen. Really seen.
I opened my mouth—to say what, I had no idea. Deny everything? Confess? Run?
The door opened.
Adeline swept in, took one look at us, and stopped. “Am I interrupting?”
“No,” August said, not looking away from me.
“Actually, you are August,” I said turning to Adeline like a drowning woman reaching for a lifeline. “Adeline and I have plans today.”
August's attention snapped to Adeline. “What plans?”
“I'm taking her to—” Adeline started smoothly.
“Cancel them,” August said.
We both stared at him.
“Excuse me?” I said.
He stood and the movement landed like a challenge. “I'm taking you somewhere. Today.”
“I don't think—”
“It wasn't a request.” His eyes locked on mine, daring me to refuse. “You want to know about this city? About history? I'll show you.” A pause, weighted. “Unless you're afraid to be alone with me.”
Adeline's warning look burned into the side of my head. This was a trap. This was dangerous. This was exactly what I shouldn't do.
But my pride wouldn't let me back down. “Fine. Where are we going?”
“You'll see. Be ready in an hour.” He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and headed for the door.
The moment he was gone, Adeline rounded on me. “Lily. This is a bad idea.”
“I know.”
“And you're going anyway.”
I met her eyes. “If I refuse, it'll confirm everything he's thinking. I don't have a choice.”
“You always have a choice.”
“Do I?” I stood, smoothing my skirts with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. “He's a hunter, Adeline. If I act like I have something to hide, he'll never stop digging until he finds it. The only way through this is to keep playing the part.”
“And what part is that?”
“The historian who has nothing to fear because she has nothing to hide.”
Even as I said it, I knew how thin that lie was wearing. How much longer could I look August in the eye and pretend I wasn't exactly what he hunted?
“Just be careful,” Adeline said quietly. “Remember who he is.”
“I know who he is.” I headed for the door, then paused. “That's what makes this so hard.”
We turned onto a street I recognized—Broad Street, lined with bookshops and the grand facades of buildings. When we stopped in front of a massive stone building with a distinctly medieval appearance, my heart skipped. Since this had all transpired my world finally righted. I was at home.
“The Bodleian Library.” August climbed out, offered his hand. “I thought you might like to see inside.”
I finally looked at him, saw the calculated interest in his eyes. “You brought me here to test me, didn't you? To see if I'm really from the future?”
A slight smile tugged at his mouth. “Something like that.”
I couldn't tell if this was an interrogation disguised as a kindness, or a kindness disguised as an interrogation. With August, it was always hard to tell.
August spoke quietly to the guard at the entrance, and we were waved through without question.
“Mr. Hawthorne. Of course. Right this way, sir.”
As we entered, the familiar scent hit me first—old paper, leather bindings, dust and time and preservation. It was exactly the same smell I'd known in 2025. Some things, apparently, didn't change across centuries.
“This way,” August said, but I was already moving.
Down the corridor, past the porter's desk, toward the entrance to—
I stopped myself, realizing I'd been about to navigate without being shown. August had noticed too, one eyebrow raised.
“Sorry,” I said. “Habit. In my time, I could probably walk this place blindfolded.”
“Then by all means.” He gestured forward. “Lead the way.”
I hesitated, then did. Up the stone staircase, the worn steps exactly as I remembered them. When we emerged into Duke Humfrey's Library, I stopped dead.
“It's exactly the same,” I breathed.
The long gallery stretched before me—wooden shelves reaching toward a painted ceiling adorned with the university's coat of arms. The same vaulted architecture. The same careful preservation.
But when I turned to share the moment with August, I saw disappointment flickering across his face.
“You've been here before,” he said. Not a question.
“In my time, yes.” I studied his face, realized what I was seeing. “You. . . you brought me here thinking I wouldn't have access. That this would be new.”
He looked away, jaw tight. “The restricted collections aren't open to the public. I thought—” He stopped. “It doesn't matter.”
“It does matter.” I stepped closer. “August, even in my time, The Bodleian is one of the most restricted research libraries in the world. I had to apply for special permission, submit my entire research proposal, get approval from two faculty advisors, and wait three weeks just to be allowed in here.”
His eyes came back to mine.
“But you've still been here. Seen it.”
“Yes.” I touched his arm gently. “But not like this. Not with someone who wanted to share it with me. Not with—” I stopped, smiled slightly. “You were trying to give me something special, weren't you? Something I couldn't have otherwise.”
Color touched his cheeks, barely visible. “I thought. . . given the restrictions on women in this time, you wouldn't be able to access places like this. I wanted to show you—” He broke off, looking almost embarrassed.
My chest tightened. Because he'd thought about what would make me happy. Had used his influence not to interrogate me, but to give me something meaningful.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “Truly. Even though I know the building, even though I've been here in my time—this is different. Special. Because you cared enough to show it to me.”
He studied my face, as if determining whether I meant it