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“I want you to help me buy time.” I moved away from the window. “A few weeks, that's all I need. Long enough to extract the truth from her. If she's a Weaver, I'll kill her myself. But I'll do it after I've learned everything she knows.”

“And if she's not a Weaver? If she really is from the future?”

“Then we'll deal with that when we understand it.” I poured another drink. “But either way, she can't be a mystery woman appearing in my house. She needs a background, a story, a reason to be here that satisfies Constance and my father's questions without drawing scrutiny.”

Garrick was silent, working through the implications. “Adeline will be furious.”

“Adeline is always furious.”

“She'll demand to know everything. Why you're hiding this woman. What your real intentions are.” He studied me carefully. “And she won't believe this is purely about intelligence gathering.”

“Then we tell her the truth.” I met his gaze. “Because if she doesn't play along, if she exposes Lily as anything other than your cousin⁠—”

“Your father will unravel her before you can blink.” Garrick finished grimly. He was quiet for another moment. “Then the story needs to be airtight. Lily would have to know details about Adeline's life, about our family history. One inconsistency and the entire thing falls apart.”

“Which means we need to teach her.” The thought of spending hours with her, coaching her on how to speak, how to behave, extracting information while building a convincing cover. “She'll need to learn quickly.”

“She'll need to be smart enough to maintain the deception under pressure.” Garrick's expression was grave. “One slip, one moment where she forgets herself⁠—”

“She won't.” Though I had no basis for that certainty beyond instinct. “She's clever. I can see it in her eyes. And she'll cooperate because she knows her life depends on it.”

“Will she?” Garrick leaned back.

He was right to question it. But the way she'd held that pitcher, the flash of anger in her eyes when I'd questioned her story. The way she’d met my gaze—steady, unflinching—didn’t belong to a terrified prisoner. It belonged to someone used to commanding attention.

“She'll cooperate,” I said with more confidence than I felt, “because the alternative is worse than defiance. And she's smart enough to recognize that.”

Garrick studied me for a long moment. Then he stood, moved to refill his glass. “You ever hear about Margaret Thornfield?”

My frown deepened. The report had been sparse—Weaver threat neutralized, minimal casualties, commendation for Garrick's swift action. Clean. Simple. The kind of operation I'd carried out myself.

“The official version was. . . simplified,” he said, reading my expression with unsettling accuracy. “Truth is, I spent three days with my target before I was supposed to eliminate her. Margaret Thornfield, grandmother of four, her magic no stronger than striking a match. But she knew things—about a larger network, about coordinated attacks being planned.”

The firelight carved shadows into his face, making him look older than his twenty-six years. Older and wearier. Like a man who had stared into an abyss and found it staring back.

“I could have followed protocol. Quick, clean, final. But something about her. . .” His mouth curved in a rueful almost smile. “She reminded me of my grandmother. So I listened. I took the time.”

I frowned. “You delayed the execution.”

“I extracted intelligence.” He met my eyes. “Every instinct screamed I was betraying protocol. But that three-day delay prevented seventeen coordinated attacks. Led us to three covens we never would have found otherwise.”

“Father approved?”

“Eventually. Once the results proved the delay was strategic, not sentimental.” Garrick's expression was steady. “Sometimes taking time isn't weakness, August. Sometimes it's the smart play. Just make sure you know which one this is.”

The words settled over me, validation and warning in equal measure.

“What about Ashby?” I asked quietly.

“I'll handle Ashby.” Garrick's jaw tightened. “Find a way to delay it. Buy you a few days, at least.”

“And if Father insists?”

“Then we improvise.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “I'll talk to Adeline tonight. Get her agreement before this goes any further. But August. . .” He turned back. “Whatever you're doing with that woman, don't let it compromise your judgment. Weavers are excellent at making you believe what they want you to believe.”

“I'm aware.”

“Are you?” He studied my face. “Because you've never hidden a prisoner before. Never lied to your father. And you've certainly never risked this much for intelligence gathering.”