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The long gallery stretched before me—wooden shelves reaching toward a painted ceiling adorned with the university's coat of arms. The same vaulted architecture. The same careful preservation.

But when I turned to share the moment with August, I saw disappointment flickering across his face.

“You've been here before,” he said. Not a question.

“In my time, yes.” I studied his face, realized what I was seeing. “You. . . you brought me here thinking I wouldn't have access. That this would be new.”

He looked away, jaw tight. “The restricted collections aren't open to the public. I thought—” He stopped. “It doesn't matter.”

“It does matter.” I stepped closer. “August, even in my time, The Bodleian is one of the most restricted research libraries in the world. I had to apply for special permission, submit my entire research proposal, get approval from two faculty advisors, and wait three weeks just to be allowed in here.”

His eyes came back to mine.

“But you've still been here. Seen it.”

“Yes.” I touched his arm gently. “But not like this. Not with someone who wanted to share it with me. Not with—” I stopped, smiled slightly. “You were trying to give me something special, weren't you? Something I couldn't have otherwise.”

Color touched his cheeks, barely visible. “I thought. . . given the restrictions on women in this time, you wouldn't be able to access places like this. I wanted to show you—” He broke off, looking almost embarrassed.

My chest tightened. Because he'd thought about what would make me happy. Had used his influence not to interrogate me, but to give me something meaningful.

“Thank you,” I said softly. “Truly. Even though I know the building, even though I've been here in my time—this is different. Special. Because you cared enough to show it to me.”

He studied my face, as if determining whether I meant it

“Besides,” I added, “in my time, I had to fill out approximately seven thousand forms. They just let us walk in. That's definitely an upgrade.”

His lips twitched. “Being the Captain of the Witch Hunters has its advantages.”

“Apparently.” I looked around again. “Are you going to give me the tour? Or are we just going to stand here?”

He offered me his arm. “Come on then,” he said with a smile.

As we walked deeper into the library, I was acutely aware of him beside me. The way he pointed out details he thought I'd find fascinating. The way he watched for my reactions, clearly pleased when I showed genuine delight. The way he seemed to relax, the earlier disappointment melting away.

He'd wanted to give me this. Had thought carefully about what would make me happy, what I would value.

And despite it all—despite who he was and what he hunted and all the reasons this was impossible—my heart softened toward him in a way I couldn't take back.

“Here,” he said, stopping in front of a case containing medieval manuscripts. “This is what I really wanted to show you.”

I moved to the nearest case like someone in a trance. Inside, a manuscript lay open, the Latin text still legible after nearly a thousand years. Illuminated letters in gold leaf and vibrant blues caught the light.

“I know you studied 1860 till now. You research the disappeared. People who vanished from historical records.” His eyes were intent on mine. “But I thought. . . these are the oldest documents Oxford has. Records of people who lived 800 years ago. Their names, their lives, preserved when so many others were lost.”

My breath caught. Because he'd connected it. Understood why I would care.

“You're right,” I said softly. “It's not about the manuscripts themselves. It's about the preservation. About how these people—these names—survived while others didn't.”

“That's what you do, isn't it?” He leaned against the case, watching me. “Try to recover the names that were lost. Give voice to people history forgot.”

“Or people history deliberately erased,” I said before I could stop myself.

The air between us shifted, became weighted.

“Like the Weavers,” he said quietly.

I met his eyes. “Like the Weavers.”