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Not faded. Not obscured by other tracks. Just. . . stopped.

Garrick crouched, studying the ground. “That's not possible.”

“Look for disturbed earth. Broken branches. Anything that suggests⁠—”

“August.”

Something in his tone made me look up.

He was staring at a patch of moss-covered ground about ten feet away. At first, I didn't see what had caught his attention. Then the light shifted, and I saw it.

A hand. Small. Pale. Barely visible beneath the fallen leaves.

I reached her in three strides, dropping to my knees. She lay crumpled against the oak's roots, unconscious but breathing. Blood matted her red hair where she'd struck the tree, and her skin was cold to the touch.

But alive.

Relief hit me like a physical blow—sharp, inexplicable. I didn't know this woman. Had no reason to care whether she lived or died. Yet the sight of her chest rising and falling steadied something in me I hadn't realized was unmoored.

Up close, her strangeness was even more apparent. The fabric of her clothing was like nothing I'd seen, smooth and uniform, without visible seams. Her boots were made of some black material I couldn't name, thick-soled and impractical. And at her wrist, a peculiar device strapped with a band—flat and square, its glass face glowed faintly with symbols that made no sense. Not like any watch I'd ever seen, lacking hands or proper numerals.

“What is she?” Garrick breathed.

I didn't answer. Couldn't. As I lifted her, cradling her against my chest, it came again—that inexplicable pull. Not desire, though she was beautiful even unconscious and bloodied. Something deeper. Recognition without understanding, as if some part of me already knew her.

As though finding her was exactly what I was meant to do.

“We need to get her back,” I said.

“Back?” Garrick's eyes widened. “To the Spire? August, your father will⁠—”

“Not the Spire. My home. She needs medical attention, and I need answers before I hand her over to Father.”

“You're going to hide her?” Garrick's voice rose slightly. “In your own house? That’s⁠—”

“The only way to understand what we've found.” I looked at him over her unconscious form. “If we bring her to my father now, he'll unravel her before we can learn anything. And if she's not a Weaver. If something else happening here.”

“You think understanding her will save Ashby?” Garrick shook his head.

“Perhaps.” I adjusted my hold on her, feeling how light she was, how cold. “But I won't deliver her without knowing what she is first. Will you help me or not?”

Garrick stared at me for a long moment, his jaw working. Then he swore, low and vicious. “This could get us both killed.”

“Perhaps.”

“And you're doing it regardless.”

“Yes.”

He shook his head, but he was already moving toward the horses. “For the record, when this goes wrong, and it shall, I'm blaming you entirely.”

“Noted.”

I lifted her onto my horse with Garrick's help, keeping one arm around her waist to hold her steady. She didn't stir. Didn't wake. Just breathed softly against my chest, her head tucked beneath my chin.

We took the long route back to Oxford, avoiding the main roads and the Spire entirely. My home sat in a quiet corner of the city, far enough from Father's reach to offer some measure of privacy. As we rode through the waking streets, drawing curious glances from early merchants and tradesmen, I couldn’t tell if I’d just made the best decision of my life—or the worst.

The woman in my arms held secrets. They clung to her like the strange fabric of her clothing, the impossible device at her wrist, the way she didn't belong to this world at all.