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I hesitated. How much should I tell him? But he already knew about the disappeared people—I'd mentioned it during his interrogation.

“Because people vanished from the records during these years. Hundreds of them, across England. Just. . . erased, as if they'd never existed.” I watched his reaction carefully. “I've spent three years tracking the patterns. Trying to understand what happened to them.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “And what did you conclude?”

“That someone removed them deliberately. That it wasn't an accident or poor record-keeping or plague.” The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. “That someone in power wanted them forgotten.”

The silence that followed was heavy, charged with things neither of us was saying.

“And now you're here,” he said quietly. “In the exact time period where these disappearances occurred.”

“Yes.” I held his gaze. “Which is why I need to understand what Weavers are. What 'unraveling' means. Because I think—” I stopped, uncertain how much to reveal.

“You think what?”

“I think the people I was researching were Weavers. And I think this Unraveler—” My throat tightened. “I think he was the one who erased them. Wasn't he?”

He was quiet for a moment, processing. “Your research—do you have notes? Documentation?”

“No.” The word came out hollow. “Everything was in my flat. Three years of work—all of it is still there. In 2025.”

Or gone. Destroyed in whatever happened when the necklace shattered.

The thought made my chest tight.

“So, you have no proof.” His tone was flat. “Nothing to verify your claims about being a scholar.”

“I have my knowledge.” I gestured helplessly. “I can tell you about census records, parish registers, specific patterns of disappearance. I can describe Victorian social customs in detail because I've studied them for three years.”

“Knowledge can be fabricated. Or woven. Still, if you truly have spent years studying this time period, that will make the cover story more convincing.”

“How generous of you to see the upside of my life's work.” The sarcasm slipped out before I could stop it.

Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. “Get some rest, Miss Whitmore. Tomorrow will be. . . intensive.”

“Wait.” I stopped him before he could leave. “My watch. You saw it work. That has to prove something, doesn't it? That kind of technology doesn't exist here.”

“It proves you have an object I don't understand.” He paused at the door. “Whether you brought it from the future or created it through Weaver magic—that remains to be seen.”

Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the dresses and the fading light and the unsettling realization that I'd just told him exactly what I'd been researching.

And now he knew I'd been trying to find them. Had that been a mistake? Showing my hand too soon?

I moved to the dress and picked it up, my mind racing. The fabric was heavier than I expected, the construction more complex. Buttons everywhere, layers I couldn't quite identify. This was going to be a nightmare to get on and off.

But it was also proof of commitment. If I was going to convince August—and everyone else—that I could pass as Adeline's cousin, I needed to look the part.

I held the dress up to my body, trying to imagine myself in it. Trying to imagine moving through Oxford's streets in this century, speaking carefully, behaving properly, every moment a performance.

Still, I'd meant what I told August. I wasn't walking into this blind.

The irony wasn't lost on me. I'd spent three years studying people who'd been erased from history, and now I was about to erase myself—bury Lily Whitmore the PhD student under the costume of Lily Whitmore the respectable cousin.

I set the dress down on the bed carefully and moved back to the window. The sun was setting now, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Below, gas lamps were being lit along the street, their warm glow pushing back the gathering darkness.

No electric lights. No cars. No phones or internet or any of the thousand small conveniences I'd taken for granted my entire life.

Just horses and carriages and people living lives I'd only ever read about.