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Him. The man from the forest. The one who'd been sitting on the horse, watching while his men hunted us. Up close, in daylight filtering through the windows, he was even more striking—tall, broad-shouldered, dark haired, with hazel eyes that seemed to see too much.

He wore different clothes now. A white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, a waistcoat unbuttoned, trousers and boots. Less formal than what I remembered from the forest, but still distinctly Victorian.

“Mrs. Hartley,” he said, his voice low and controlled. “Perhaps you should give us a moment.”

“Sir, I don't think⁠—”

“It's alright.” His eyes never left mine. “I'll call if I need you.”

The housekeeper—Mrs. Hartley—hesitated, then nodded. She left, closing the door behind her, and suddenly I was alone with the man who'd captured me in the forest.

I raised the pitcher higher. “Stay back.”

He lifted both hands, palms out. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

“You hunted me. You and your men—you were hunting us.”

“I was hunting Weavers.” He took a careful step into the room, moving slowly, as if approaching a frightened animal. “My name is August Hawthorne. You're in my home.”

“I'll hurt you if you come any closer.”

“No, you won't.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. “You're injured, disoriented, and you've never thrown a pitcher at anyone in your life. I can see it in the way you're holding it.”

Damn him for being right. I adjusted my grip anyway, trying to look more threatening.

“You're going to answer some questions for me,” he said, taking a careful step into the room.

“Or what?”

“Or I deliver you to the Unraveler, who will be far less patient than I'm being.” He moved slowly, deliberately closer, blocking my exit. “Now. Let's start with something simple. What's your name?”

I hesitated. Every word I gave him was a weapon he could use against me. But what choice did I have? “Lily. Lily Whitmore.”

“Lily Whitmore.” He said it slowly, as if testing the sound. “And where are you from, Miss Whitmore?”

“Oxford.”

“Don't lie to me.” His tone sharpened. “I know every family in Oxford, every street, every face. You are not from here. So, I'll ask again. Where are you from?”

My hands trembled on the pitcher. “I told you. Oxford. Just. . . not this Oxford.”

“Explain.”

“I can't—you won't believe me.”

“Try me.” He crossed his arms, leaning back against the door. “I've seen things most people wouldn't believe. Weavers who can twist fate with a thought. Illusions that make grown men see monsters that aren't there. So, tell me Miss Whitmore. Are you a Weaver?”

“A what?” I blinked. “Like. . . people who make fabric?”

“Don't play ignorant.” His eyes narrowed. “The girl you were with in the forest. She created those illusions along with the others. Made my men see things that weren't real. Are you working with her?”

“I don't even know her! She just. . . she grabbed my hand and told me to run.”

“Convenient.” He pushed off from the door, moving closer. I backed up until my legs hit the bed. “A mysterious woman appears in the middle of a Weaver ambush, wearing clothes I've never seen, speaking in a manner that's distinctly. . . off. And I'm supposed to believe it's all coincidence?”

“I don't care what you believe!” The words burst out of me. “I don't know what a Weaver is. I don't know that little girl. I don't know how I got here. All I know is one minute I was in my gran's flat in 2025, and the next I was in your forest being hunted like an animal!”

He went still. “2025?”