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“That's an interesting answer,” Adeline said quietly. Then, unexpectedly, she smiled. Not warmly, but with something like respect. “And probably the only honest thing you've said since I arrived.”

I blinked. “You're not⁠—”

“Angry? Concerned? Planning to report you to August?” She moved back to her chair with deliberate grace. “No. Though I'd strongly advise you to be more careful who you share those opinions with. Most people in Oxford wouldn't be so. . . understanding.”

“And you are?”

“I'm pragmatic.” She settled back into her seat. “And I've watched too many people disappear for asking the wrong questions. So, I don't agree with everything August does, but I keep my head down and my opinions private.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” Something flickered across her face—weariness, maybe, or old anger carefully banked. “But it's also safe. Which brings me back to you.”

“Me?”

“You lied to August this morning.” She said it matter-of-factly, like commenting on the weather. “About what you saw on that street. He knows you lied. And he's deciding whether to confront you directly or simply watch you until you reveal the truth yourself.”

My mouth went dry. “He told you that?”

“He didn't have to. I know him.” She poured herself more tea with steady hands. “So here's my advice, ‘cousin.’ If you're going to do something foolish, make sure you have an excellent excuse prepared. And for God's sake, don't get caught.”

“I'm not⁠—”

“Don't.” She held up one hand. “Don't insult my intelligence by claiming innocence. I don't know what you're planning, and I don't want to know. But whatever it is, understand that August is already suspicious and one misstep will end very badly for you.”

She stood, smoothing her skirts with brisk efficiency. “Now. We need to practice your entrance and exit. Lady Pemberton is hosting dinner next week, and the way you walk into a room currently suggests you're either fleeing a fire or preparing to start one.”

I followed her to the center of the room, mind racing. The walls of this elegant prison were closing in, and every polite smile I practiced was another loop in the noose.

“Lily.” Adeline's sharp voice pulled me back. “You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Thinking too loudly.” She demonstrated a graceful turn, her movements fluid and controlled. “Whatever's occupying your mind, set it aside. For the next hour, your only concern is convincing Oxford society that you're a perfectly ordinary young woman from Yorkshire.”

“Right. Perfectly ordinary.”

“Mock if you like, but mastering these rituals might save your life someday.” Her expression turned serious. “Strange things happen to women who don't know how to play the game, Miss Whitmore. And stranger things happen to those who play it poorly.”

She resumed the lesson—drilling me on posture, on grace, on the thousand small ways a woman could be judged and found wanting in this world.

But her warning echoed in my mind long after.

Strange things happen to women who don't know how to play the game.

I just hoped I was playing the right one.

CHAPTER 12

AUGUST

The Iron Spire loomed against the evening sky, a blade thrust into Oxford's heart. I'd never questioned its presence. Never wondered if the shadow it cast was protection or threat.

Not until Lily Whitmore.

The guards at the entrance nodded me through. I climbed the familiar stone steps, boots echoing in the corridor, each footfall a countdown to a conversation I'd been avoiding for weeks.

I found him in his study, as I'd known I would. Elias Hawthorne sat behind a desk that had seen countless interrogations. Surrounded by maps chronicling his life’s work. Red pins for confirmed threats. Black for suspected. White for eliminated.