Chapter 25 #2
“Besides,” I added, “in my time, I had to fill out approximately seven thousand forms. They just let us walk in. That's definitely an upgrade.”
His lips twitched. “Being the Captain of the Witch Hunters has its advantages.”
“Apparently.” I looked around again. “Are you going to give me the tour? Or are we just going to stand here?”
He offered me his arm. “Come on then,” he said with a smile.
As we walked deeper into the library, I was acutely aware of him beside me. The way he pointed out details he thought I'd find fascinating. The way he watched for my reactions, clearly pleased when I showed genuine delight. The way he seemed to relax, the earlier disappointment melting away.
He'd wanted to give me this. Had thought carefully about what would make me happy, what I would value.
And despite it all—despite who he was and what he hunted and all the reasons this was impossible—my heart softened toward him in a way I couldn't take back.
“Here,” he said, stopping in front of a case containing medieval manuscripts. “This is what I really wanted to show you.”
I moved to the nearest case like someone in a trance. Inside, a manuscript lay open, the Latin text still legible after nearly a thousand years. Illuminated letters in gold leaf and vibrant blues caught the light.
“I know you studied 1860 till now. You research the disappeared. People who vanished from historical records.” His eyes were intent on mine.
“But I thought. . . these are the oldest documents Oxford has. Records of people who lived 800 years ago. Their names, their lives, preserved when so many others were lost.”
My breath caught. Because he'd connected it. Understood why I would care.
“You're right,” I said softly. “It's not about the manuscripts themselves. It's about the preservation. About how these people—these names—survived while others didn't.”
“That's what you do, isn't it?” He leaned against the case, watching me. “Try to recover the names that were lost. Give voice to people history forgot.”
“Or people history deliberately erased,” I said before I could stop myself.
The air between us shifted, became weighted.
“Like the Weavers,” he said quietly.
I met his eyes. “Like the Weavers.”
“Can I—” I stopped myself. “Never mind. I'm sure they're too delicate.”
August spoke to the librarian who'd appeared in the doorway. “Would it be possible for Miss Whitmore to examine some of the manuscripts? Under supervision, of course.”
The librarian—an elderly man with kind eyes—studied me for a moment. “You're a scholar, miss?”
“Historian,” I said.
He smiled. “Then you'll appreciate these. Come.”
He unlocked one of the cases and carefully lifted out a manuscript, laying it on the table. “Twelfth century. A chronicle of Oxford's founding legends. Handle it gently, if you would.”
I approached the table like it was an altar. Because in a way, it was. This book was older than most countries. Had survived wars, fires, the dissolution of the monasteries, centuries of neglect and preservation and human history.
My fingers trembled as I touched the edge of the page. The parchment was butter-soft, the ink still dark. Someone had written this by hand, by candlelight, probably in some monastery that no longer existed. And here it was. Still surviving. Still telling its story.
“What does it say?” August asked, and I realized he'd moved to stand beside me.
I translated as I read, my Latin rusty but serviceable. “In the year of our Lord 1096, the great scholar Theobald established his school in Oxford. . .” I traced the illuminated capital without quite touching it. “This is one of the earliest references to Oxford as a center of learning.”
I kept reading, explaining the historical context as I went—the early scholars, the conflicts with townspeople, the gradual establishment that would become one of the world's greatest universities.
And the whole time, I was aware of August beside me. Not interrupting. Just listening. Watching.
I read faster, translating and explaining, my hands moving as I talked, my whole body animated by the sheer joy of it. This was what I loved. What I'd always loved. History wasn't just dates and events. It was lives. Real people who'd loved and feared and hoped and died.
I looked up from the manuscript to find August watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing.” But he didn't look away. “I've just never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Happy.” The word was quiet, almost wondering. “You smile when you talk about history. Did you know that?”
I hadn't known. Didn't know what to do with the way he was looking at me now—like I was something rare and precious instead of something to solve.
“Thank you,” I said, the words inadequate for what I was feeling. “For bringing me here.”
“I thought you'd like it.”
“Like it?” I laughed, gestured at the manuscripts surrounding us. “August, this is—these are some of the most important documents in English history. This is. . .” I trailed off, shaking my head. “Why did you really bring me here?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “Because last night you asked me to prove something. I'm proving it.”
“Proving what?”
“That I see you.” He took a step closer. “Not just a problem to solve or a mystery to unravel. I see you, Lily. The way you light up when you talk about history. The way you get lost in books. The way you look at the world like everything in it matters.” Another step. “I wanted you to know that.”
My breath caught. We were close now. Close enough I could smell the familiar scent of him. Close enough that my pulse stuttered.
“August,” I whispered.
“You look at these books like they're treasures,” he said, voice rough. “Like they're miracles. I wish. . .” He stopped, shook his head.
“What?” The word came out barely audible.
“I wish you'd look at me like that. Just once.”
Everything stopped. The library. The world. My heart.
“I can't,” I managed.
“Can’t?” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek. “Or won't?”
“Both.” The word trembled between us. “August, I—”
“Don't lie to me.” He leaned closer, steady and unyielding. “Not here. Not now. Tell me you don't feel this.”
“I can't.”
“Can’t tell me? Or can’t feel it?”
“I don't know.” The truth, raw and desperate. “I don't know anything anymore except that this—” I gestured helplessly between us. “This is impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because—” Because you hunt people like me. Because everything you believe about Weavers is wrong and I can't tell you without signing my own death warrant.
“Because it is,” I said instead, weakly.
He cupped my face in his palm, and I should have pulled away. Should have stepped back, erected every wall I had.
But I leaned in. Starved for the feel of him.
“Tell me to stop,” he said, his thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Tell me this is wrong and you don't want it, and I'll walk away. I'll never push again.”
I opened my mouth. The words should have been easy. Stop. This is wrong. I don't want this.
But they wouldn't come.
Because they'd be lies. And I was so tired of lying.
“I can't,” I whispered instead.
He moved closer, and I could feel the warmth of him, could see the way his eyes had gone dark with want. His other hand found my waist, settled there with a certainty that made my knees weak.
“Lily,” he said, and my name on his lips sounded like a prayer and a curse and a question all at once.
I rose on my toes, closing the last inch between us, my hands finding his chest—
Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Sharp, approaching fast.
We sprang apart like we'd been burned. August turned away, ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense. I pressed my palms to my flaming cheeks, tried to steady my breathing.
The librarian appeared in the doorway, mercifully oblivious. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but we're closing this section for lunch. You're welcome to return this afternoon if you'd like?”
“That won't be necessary,” August said. “We should be going anyway. Thank you for your assistance.”
We left in silence that felt like a held breath. Through the library, down the stairs, out into the street where the afternoon sun felt too bright, too real.
The carriage ride home was excruciating. We sat on opposite seats, not looking at each other, the space between us charged with everything we hadn't said, hadn't done.
When we finally pulled up in front of the house, I practically threw myself out of the carriage before it had fully stopped.
“Lily,” August called, following me up the steps.
I paused at the door, my hand on the handle. Didn't turn around.
“What happened in there—” he started.
“Nothing happened,” I interrupted.
“Lily—”
“Nothing happened, August. We looked at some old books. That's all.”
I could feel him behind me. Could practically hear the argument he wanted to make.
“We can't,” I said to the door. “Whatever you're thinking. Whatever you want. We can't.”
“Why not?”
“Because you don't know me.” I turned to face him, my control hanging by a thread. “You think you do. But if you really knew what I was—”
“What you were?” He stepped closer. “Or what you are?”
The question hung between us, dangerous and pointed.
“Go inside, Lily,” he said finally, when I didn't answer. “Before one of us says something we cannot take back.”
I fled.
Took the stairs two at a time, threw myself into my room, and pressed my back against the closed door.