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But Adeline had sent word she'd return this afternoon for Lily's first proper lesson, and the study offered privacy that the drawing room didn't. So here we were, the pocket doors rolled shut behind us, afternoon light slanting through the tall windows and painting everything in shades of amber.

The room was unmistakably mine. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with volumes on history and law and magical theory. My desk dominated one corner—meticulously organized, every paper in its place. A pair of leather chairs flanked the fireplace, where embers still glowed from this morning's fire. Maps covered one wall, marked with pins indicating Weaver activity across England.

I watched her take it all in, noting how her gaze lingered on the maps. On the details. Still that historian's mind—or was it a weaver mind—cataloguing everything.

And still hiding whatever she'd seen on that street.

“Impressive collection,” she said, moving to the bookshelves.

“My one indulgence.” I moved to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. “Most hunters don't bother with books beyond tactical manuals.”

I offered her a glass, and she took it cautiously. Good. Still wary, but not closed off entirely.

“You have a first edition Gibbon,” she said, her fingers trailing along the spines with genuine reverence. “And—is that Johnson's Dictionary? The 1755 edition?”

“You know your books.”

“I'm a historian. Books are my love language.” She glanced at me over her shoulder, something softening in her expression. “Though I have to admit, I didn't expect a hunter to be quite so well-read.”

“What did you expect? A brute with a blade and no thoughts beyond the next kill?”

“Maybe.” She turned back to the shelves. “But you have Locke. And Hume. And—” She pulled out a slim volume. “Poetry?”

“Henley. My mother's favorite.”

“'I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’” She looked at me with understanding.

“You know Henley.”

“I studied poetry before I switched to history.” She returned the book carefully to its place. “Your mother had good taste.”

“She did.” The words came out rougher than intended.

And there it was—that opening. The moment where grief could be used to build trust.

I let the silence stretch, let her see the real pain in my expression. It wasn't difficult. Thinking about my mother always hurt, regardless of the tactical value.

“I'm sorry,” Lily said quietly, turning the poetry book over in her hands. “About your mother. I know what it's like to lose family.”

Something in her voice made me look at her more carefully. “You do?”

“My parents died when I was eight. An accident.” She said it matter-of-factly, but her knuckles were white on the book. “And my little sister. Maya. She was six.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I'd been prepared to probe about the stumble on the street, to gently extract information while offering sympathy as a tool. But this⁠—

“All at once?” The question came out rougher than intended.

“One night. Rain-slicked road, a car—” She stopped, seeming to catch herself. “It’s kind of like a carriage. Another person lost control. I was in the carriage too. I was the only one who survived.”

Christ.

I knew what it meant to lose a mother suddenly, violently. One moment she'd been alive, the next simply. . . gone. Unmade by the magic she'd trusted. But I'd only lost her. Lily had lost everyone. Had survived when her entire family hadn't.

Despite every tactical instinct, despite knowing I should catalogue this vulnerability as leverage, the training dropped away. Something unwelcome—sympathy—cut through.

“I'm sorry,” I said. It was true and I hated that it was. “That's—no child should carry that.”

“No.” She took a shaky breath. “But we do anyway. We learn to live with it. Find purpose in the grief, like you said.”