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“Yes. October 1st, 2025.” I gestured at my watch. “Look. It's right here. The date, the time.”

“That device on your wrist.” He moved closer, his focus shifting to my Apple Watch. “What is it?”

“It's a smartwatch. Well, more than a watch. It tells time, tracks my health, sends messages—” I stopped at the look on his face. “You have watches. Pocket watches.”

“Not like that.” He was close enough now that I could see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes. Close enough that I caught his scent—cedar and rain-soaked moss. Wild and clean, as if the forest itself had claimed him. “May I?”

It wasn't really a question. Before I could answer, his hand closed around my wrist—gentle but firm. His fingers were warm against my skin as he turned my wrist to examine the watch. The touch sent an unwelcome shiver up my arm.

Then his thumb brushed over the screen. It lit up at his touch, displaying the time and my notifications.

He sucked in a breath. “It responds. Like it's alive.”

“It's technology. Not magic.” Though explaining a smart watch to someone from 1892 suddenly seemed impossible. “It runs on electricity and—look, it doesn't matter. What matters is that it proves I'm telling the truth. I'm from the future.”

He released my wrist but didn't step back. “Or you're a sophisticated Weaver with objects I don't understand, and a story designed to make me lower my guard.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you were caught. Because your group failed last night, and now you're trying another tactic.” The questions came rapid-fire, relentless. “How many Weavers are in your group? What were you planning in those woods?”

“I'm not a Weaver!” The words broke on a sob of frustration. “I'm a PhD student! I research Victorian history! I was at my gran's flat, and there was this necklace—” I stopped, remembering. “The necklace. It shattered.”

“What necklace?”

“The necklace—my gran's necklace. It fell and shattered, and that's when—” I gestured helplessly around the room. “That's when all of this happened. When I ended up here.”

His expression didn't change. “How convenient. A magical object that no longer exists, and I'm simply supposed to take your word for it?”

“I'm telling the truth!”

“Weavers are excellent at weaving stories as well as fate, Miss Whitmore.” He leaned against the wall now. “So, let's try a different approach. This necklace. Where did your grandmother get it?”

“I don't know. It was in a box with old photographs. I'd never seen it before that night.”

“And she just happened to have a time-traveling artifact lying about?” His tone was dry. “That didn't strike you as odd?”

“Of course it struck me as odd! I didn't know it could do that!” My hands clenched tighter around the pitcher. “I picked it up, a bird hit the window, I dropped it, and then everything exploded into light. I didn't ask for any of this!”

“Or,” he said slowly, “you're a Weaver who got caught and now you're spinning an elaborate tale to buy yourself time. Time magic, mysterious necklaces, a grandmother who cannot corroborate your story⁠—”

“Don't.” I cut him off without flinching. “Don't you even speak of my grandmother.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not sympathy. Surprise. As if the edge in my voice caught him off guard, made him realize he’d stumbled into something raw and bleeding. He went still, studying me with that same unsettling focus, but this time there was a trace of caution in it.

He moved to the window, pushing the curtain aside to look out at the street below. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight.

“Mr. Hawthorne?” I prompted.

He turned back to face me. “We are going to work together.”

“Work together? I thought you were interrogating me.”

“I was. I am.” He studied me with that same intense focus. “But either you're the most talented liar I've ever encountered, or you're telling the truth. And if you're telling the truth. . .” He paused. “Then we have a much larger problem than a failed Weaver hunt.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind that involves objects that can move people through time. The kind that the Unraveler would kill to possess.” He leaned closer, close enough that I could see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw, the gold in his eyes catching the light. “So, I need you to be very honest with me, Miss Whitmore. Is there any chance—any chance at all—that you're a Weaver and simply don't know it?”