Chapter 26
AUGUST
What had I been thinking?
I stood outside the iron gates of the house I grew up in, staring at the gray stone facade without really seeing it.
My mind was still back in that library. Still watching Lily trace her fingers over ancient manuscripts with reverent care.
Still feeling the warmth of her standing close enough to touch.
Instead of questioning her about her appearance last night, I’d found myself just wanting to make her happy.
The realization sat wrong in my chest, like something broken shifting out of place.
I was a hunter. I didn't bring suspected Weavers or time travelers to restricted libraries and watch them light up over old Latin texts.
I didn't care whether they smiled or softened or looked at me like I was something other than a threat.
And yet, when she'd realized I'd chosen the Bodleian specifically for her—when that careful guardedness had cracked and she'd thanked me—something in me had. . . shifted.
Dangerous. That was dangerous thinking.
Even if she was telling the truth—even if she really was from 2025, really had traveled through time—what future could there be?
She'd said electricity was coming, that the world would change in ways I couldn't imagine.
She'd talked about her time like it was home, like she belonged there and not here.
If she wasn't a Weaver, if she was exactly what she claimed, then eventually she'd want to go back. Would find a way to return to her own time, to her own life, where she didn't need men's permission to access libraries.
And I would be. . . what? A historical curiosity? Someone she'd known once, in a time she'd been trapped in?
The thought shouldn't have bothered me as much as it did.
But if she was a Weaver—if this time travel story was an elaborate cover for something darker—then I was a fool for wanting her at all.
For hesitating when my father had asked if I still believed in our work.
For standing in that library and coming within a breath of kissing a woman who might be exactly the thing I'd sworn to destroy.
Either way, this ended badly.
I should never have taken her there. Should have kept my distance, maintained my objectivity, done my job instead of trying to earn smiles from a woman who looked at me like I was redeemable.
My fingers curled around the cold iron of the gate. My father's estate. The place I'd spent my childhood learning that duty mattered more than affection, that sentiment was weakness, that the only approval worth having was earned through absolute loyalty to the cause.
I pushed through the gate, my boots crunching on gravel, and tried to shove thoughts of Lily back into whatever corner of my mind they'd escaped from. I couldn't afford to be distracted. Not here. Not when I was about to face the man who'd see through any weakness in my armor.
The butler opened the door before I could knock. “The smoking room, Mr. Hawthorne.”
I found my father there, brandy in hand, surrounded by dark leather and wood paneling and the lingering scent of cigars. He stood by the window, looking out at his perfectly manicured grounds.
“Close the door,” he said without turning.
“You wanted to see me,” I said.
“There's been another sighting.” He turned finally, his sharp green eyes locking onto mine. “The western edge of the city. Near the old mill.”
I waited. There was always more.
“That's not far from your home,” he added, and the words carried weight beyond their simple meaning.
“We've been increasing patrols,” I said evenly. “If they're getting bolder—”
“They're not getting bolder.” He cut me off. “They're getting desperate. Which means we need to move quickly.”
I nodded once. “I'll take care of it.”
Elias watched me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, and I fought the urge to step back. To put distance between us the way I had as a child, when his scrutiny burned like standing too close to a fire.
“August,” he said, his tone quieter now. Almost gentle. Almost. “Do you still believe in what we do?”
The question landed like a blow. I kept my face impassive, my shoulders squared, even as something twisted in my chest.
“Yes,” I said. The word came automatically, the answer I'd been trained to give.
But even as I said it, I heard the lie in it. Or not a lie, exactly. A question mark where certainty used to be.
Elias studied me. He'd always been able to see through me, to find the weak points in my armor. It was why I'd learned to build those walls so high.
After a long silence, he reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. The touch was firm, meant to be reassuring. Instead it was a shackle.
“You know what happens to those who falter, August. And as much as it would pain me to unravel my own son, I will not be shaken in the cause.”
The words were delivered with that same careful tone, as if he were discussing the weather. As if the threat of erasing his own child from existence was just another matter of duty.
I wanted to ask: Would it pain you? Would you feel anything at all?
Instead, I said, “I don't falter.”
“Good.” He squeezed my shoulder once, then let go. “Because doubt is a sickness. And once it takes root, it spreads.”
He stepped back, returned to his position by the window. The moment of false warmth—if it could even be called that—was over.
“I expect results,” he said.
“I won't disappoint you.” The words rand hollow even as I spoke them. How many times had I said that? How many times had I tried to earn something—approval, affection, anything—from this man who saw me as nothing more than an extension of his mission?
I turned to leave, desperate to escape this room, this house, the suffocating weight of his expectations.
“One last matter.”
I stopped, my hand on the door.
“The Pembertons are hosting a dinner in four days' time,” Elias said. His thumb stroked the silver wolf-head on his cane, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “Every influential person in Oxford will be in attendance. I expect you to be there.”
“Of course.”
“And bring Miss Whitmore.”
I went very still. “Why?”
“Because I want to meet her.” His tone was casual, but nothing my father did was casual. “You've been keeping her in your house for weeks now. I'm. . . curious about this woman who appeared so conveniently in our city.”
The way he said “conveniently” made my stomach tighten.
“She's not—” I started.
“I'm not accusing her of anything, August.” He turned to face me fully now, and there was something calculating in his expression.
“Yet. But surely you can understand my interest in a woman who knows so much about the disappeared. Who asks the kinds of questions she asks. Who seems to have such strong. . . opinions about our work.”
How did he know about that? Had someone reported our conversation at the tavern? Was Garrick not as discreet as I'd thought?
“See that she's properly dressed,” Elias continued. “Properly presented. I want to observe her. See what kind of woman has captured my son's attention so thoroughly.”
“She hasn’t—”
“Don't lie to me, August. I know you better than that.” His smile was cold. “You've always been easy to read when you care about something. It's one of your weaknesses.”
The words stung more than they should have.
“Will that be all?”
“Actually, no.” He moved back to his desk, picked up a letter. “I received an interesting visit yesterday. From Constance.”
My jaw tightened. “What did she want?”
“To inform me that you'd ended things between you.” He looked up. “Rather abruptly, it seems. She was quite. . . distressed.”
“Constance and I were never serious.”
“No, but she was useful. Well-connected. The kind of alliance that benefits our work.” He set the letter down. “And you ended it for what? Boredom.”
“I ended it because it wasn't going anywhere,” I said.
“Hmm.” Elias didn't look convinced. “Well. Perhaps Miss Whitmore will prove equally useful, in her own way. We'll see at the dinner.” He paused. “Will Adeline Wolfe be accompanying you as well?”
“Adeline is Lily's companion. She goes where Lily goes.”
“Of course. How. . . proper of you.” His tone suggested he found nothing proper about it at all. “Then I'll expect all three of you. Friday evening. Don't be late.”
It wasn't a request. It never was.
“As you wish, Father.”
I left before he could dissect me further, find more weaknesses, more ways to remind me that I would never be enough. Never be the son he wanted. Never earn more than these cold commands and calculated touches.
The walk back through the house stretched longer than it should have. Past the portrait of my mother that hung in the hall—the mother I barely remembered, who'd died when I was five.
My fingers found the pendant at my throat. Hers. The only piece of her I had left.
I wondered if my father would have been different if the Weavers hadn't killed her. Would he have been more present, less consumed by vengeance.
I'd never know. And asking was pointless.
Outside, I sucked in a breath of cool October air, tried to shake off the oppressive weight of that house.
A dinner. At the Pembertons'. With every influential person in Oxford. And my father wanted Lily there.
Wanted to observe her. Question her. Test her.
I tugged my sleeve straight, preparing to head home, and froze.
A single red hair clung to the dark wool, fine as spider-silk. I tried to brush it away, but it clung stubbornly, as if the hair itself had marked me.
Lily.
She'd looked at me this morning like I was something other than a hunter. Like I was just. . . August.
And now I had to bring her to a dinner where my father would dissect her every word and movement, searching for signs she stood with the Weavers, not the hunters.
I caught the red hair between my fingers, but it slipped away like water. Like a thread I couldn't hold onto no matter how hard I tried.