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“It matters because it's the sensible thing to do.” I gestured down the path, redirecting us. “A woman living in my house would raise questions I cannot afford to answer. Even with the cousin story.”

“Right. Sensible.” But something in her tone suggested she didn't entirely believe that was the only reason.

She wasn't wrong.

But I wasn't about to admit that Garrick's words from yesterday had been echoing in my mind—that keeping Lily alive and keeping Constance comfortable were mutually exclusive. That I'd already made my choice, even if I hadn't fully acknowledged it yet.

“Anyway,” I continued, “Adeline made her disapproval abundantly clear from the beginning. I suspect she'll be far more enthusiastic about teaching you.”

“Because I'm not trying to marry you?”

“Because you're not boring.” The words came out before I could stop them.

Lily stopped walking, turning to face me fully. “Was she? Boring?”

I should have deflected. Should have changed the subject. Instead, I found myself being honest. “Predictable. Pleasant. Everything she was supposed to be and nothing more.”

“Sounds terrible,” Lily said, but there was no mockery in it. Just understanding.

“It was practical.” I started walking again. “Which is what matters in these situations.”

“Is it?” She kept pace beside me. “Because from where I'm standing, 'practical' sounds a lot like 'miserable.'”

I didn't answer that. Couldn't. Because she wasn't wrong.

And that was the problem.

CHAPTER 9

LILY

The garden was smaller than I expected. Not tiny—there were roses climbing the brick walls, herb beds laid out in neat geometric patterns, a fountain in the center with water trickling from a stone cherub's urn. But after three laps around the gravel path, I'd memorized every detail. The jasmine near the back wall. The mint that Mrs. Hartley probably used for tea. The bench tucked into an alcove where someone could sit and read.

A beautiful cage was still a cage.

August walked beside me, his hands clasped behind his back, his posture perfectly upright. He'd been asking questions—methodical, precise questions about my research, my university, the differences between now and 2025. I answered when I could, deflected when I couldn't.

But my attention kept drifting to the house itself.

I'd only been in my room. Now, in the garden, I could see it properly. Three stories of Georgian stone, tall windows with ornate molding, a columned entrance that spoke of money and status. The kind of house that would be worth millions in my time.

August Hawthorne wasn't just a hunter. He was wealthy. Connected. The kind of man who had power in this world.

Which made him exponentially more dangerous.

“You're staring,” he said without looking at me.

“I'm observing.” I gestured at the house. “This is all yours?”

“Yes. I purchased it five years ago.” His tone was neutral. “My father prefers I maintain my own residence. Says it builds character.”

“Does your wealth come from being a Hunter or is it generational?”

He didn't speak for a long moment. “Both, actually. My father has always held status. Being the captain of the hunters further supplements that wealth.”

The idea of acquiring wealth on erasure sent ice through my veins. “Please tell me you don't agree with all of this. This mission to erase people from existence.”

“The mission to protect innocent lives from those who would manipulate fate itself. You've spent three years researching disappearances. Did you ever consider that those people might have been dangerous? That their removal saved countless others?”