Page 31

I lurched forward instinctively, every part of screaming that this was wrong, that I should do something, say something⁠—

August's hand clamped down on my arm, pulling me sharply into the shadow of a building. His body blocked me from view, close enough that I could feel the heat of him, the solid wall of muscle and controlled strength.

“Don't.” His face was inches from mine, those hazel eyes boring into me with an intensity that made my breath catch. “Don't even think about it.”

“They're—she’s—” I couldn't form words through the rage and horror choking me.

“She's a Weaver. Probably caught manipulating fate, or creating illusions, or any of a dozen other crimes.” His grip didn't loosen. “And if you draw attention to yourself right now, if anyone sees you defending her, they'll start asking questions we cannot answer.”

“So we just watch?” The words came out too loud. I tried to pull away but he held firm, his fingers a bracelet of iron around my wrist. “We just stand here while they⁠—”

“Yes.” No hesitation. No doubt. “That's exactly what we do.”

I stared at him—this man with his expensive clothes and beautiful house and cold certainty. This man who hunted people for what they were, not what they'd done. I wanted to hit him. Shake him. Force him to see the cruelty in his words.

“You're a monster,” I said through gritted teeth.

Something flickered in his expression. “Perhaps. But I'm the monster keeping you alive right now. So, I suggest you remember that.”

The constables disappeared around a corner, the woman stumbling between them. The crowd dispersed, already forgetting what they'd just witnessed. Life in Victorian Oxford continued as if nothing had happened. As if a person hadn't just been dragged through the streets like an animal.

My mind did what it always did when reality became unbearable—it retreated into analysis. Primary source, I thought numbly. I am a primary source now.

August stepped back, putting careful distance between us. But the ghost of his touch lingered. The heat of where his body had pressed close still alive on my skin.

“What happens to her now?” I asked, though part of me didn't want to know.

“She'll be taken to the Iron Spire for questioning.” He scanned the street for witnesses, his expression carefully neutral again. “If she cooperates, provides information about other Weavers—she might earn a quick death. If not. . .”

He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

“Unraveling,” I said flatly.

“Yes.”

The casual way he said it made my stomach turn. “And you think that's justice?”

“I think it's necessary.” But he wouldn't look at me. “Weavers are dangerous, Miss Whitmore. They see threads of probability connecting every moment to the next. Most people follow them blindly. Weavers grab them, twist them, redirect them.” He gestured as if manipulating invisible strings. “A thread that should lead to a successful harvest instead leads to blight. A safe journey home ends in a fatal accident. They reshape reality to serve their desires.”

“I know what happens after systematic persecution, Mr. Hawthorne.” I moved to stand in front of him, forcing him to meet my eyes. “It never ends with just the 'dangerous' ones. It spreads. It escalates. Eventually, you're erasing people for the crime of existing.”

“That's not⁠—”

“Isn't it?” I gestured toward where the woman had been dragged away. “What did she do? What specific crime did she commit that deserves being erased from existence?”

“I don't know her specific case⁠—”

“Exactly. You don't know. You don't ask. You just accept that she's a Weaver, she's guilty, therefore she deserves to be unmade.” My anger rose despite my efforts to control it. “That's not justice. That's genocide.”

His jaw clenched. “You're applying modern morality to a situation you don't understand.”

“I'm applying basic human decency to watching someone be dragged through the streets like an animal!”

“And what would you have me do? Stage a rescue? Fight the constables? Get us both arrested and questioned? Because that woman—she's lost. But you? You I can still save. If you'll stop being foolish long enough to let me.”

The words hit like a slap. Because he was right, and I hated it. Hated that survival meant complicity. Hated that I was standing here arguing instead of helping. Hated that the only thing keeping me alive was this man who represented everything I'd spent three years trying to figure out.

“In my research. I found patterns. Seventy-three villages where people disappeared. Hundreds of names erased from records. And you know what the really interesting part is?”