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I wanted to look away. I didn’t.

I thought about the research I’d been doing. The disappeared people. The patterns of erasure. The quiet pull that had always told me they were mine to uncover.

“I don't think so,” I said slowly. “But I don't exactly know what a Weaver is, so. . .”

“Weavers are witches. They manipulate fate. They can see the threads that connect all things and pull them, twist them, reshape reality itself.” He watched my reaction carefully. “They're dangerous. Unpredictable. And the Unraveler believes they all need to be eliminated.”

“Eliminated.” The word settled in my stomach like ice. “You mean killed.”

“Unraveled. It's worse than death.” He glanced at the door, then back at me. “Which is why we need to determine quickly whether you are one. Because if he finds out you're here, and he suspects for even a moment that you might be a Weaver. . .”

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to.

“If you think I’m lying, you should lock me up now,” I said. “Otherwise, stop circling me like a wolf.”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite anger.

“So what now?” I asked.

“Now?” August's expression was unreadable. “Now you rest. You heal. And you tell me everything you know about that necklace and how it brought you here. Because if a way to send you back, we need to find it.”

“Before the Unraveler finds out about me.”

“Before a lot of things happen.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it's worth, Miss Whitmore—I hope you're not lying. I hope you just stumbled into the wrong century. Because if you're not. . .”

“You'll kill me?”

“I'll have no choice.” He met my eyes, and the cold certainty in them made my breath catch. “Sleep. We'll talk when you've recovered.”

Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

I was alone in a room that belonged to a century I'd only read about. With a man who might be my only hope of getting home.

Or my executioner.

CHAPTER 6

AUGUST

Iclosed the door to the guest chamber and stood in the hallway. My hand still on the handle. She was either the most talented liar I'd ever encountered, or she possessed knowledge that could change everything we understood about magic and time. Either way, she was valuable.

And valuable things could be exploited.

Fear makes people unpredictable. Anger makes them careless. And if I could keep her off-balance, cycling between hope and despair, comfort and threat, I'd break her eventually.

Everyone breaks, eventually. The trick is finding the right pressure and making them think they chose to bend.

I forced myself to move, boots striking the floorboards with measured precision as I descended the stairs. Every hunter's instinct I possessed screamed that I'd made a mistake—that leaving a potential Weaver alive and unsecured in my own house was the height of foolishness.

But I needed answers. And corpses didn't talk.

The study door was open. Garrick sat in my chair, boots propped on the desk, a glass of my whiskey in his hand. He looked up as I entered, and whatever he saw in my face made him swing his feet down.

“Well? What is she?”

“I don't know.” I moved to the sideboard and poured myself a drink. “Which is precisely the problem.”

“Weaver?”