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The butler opened the door before I could knock. “The smoking room, Mr. Hawthorne.”

I found my father there, brandy in hand, surrounded by dark leather and wood paneling and the lingering scent of cigars. He stood by the window, looking out at his perfectly manicured grounds.

“Close the door,” he said without turning.

“You wanted to see me,” I said.

“There's been another sighting.” He turned finally, his sharp green eyes locking onto mine. “The western edge of the city. Near the old mill.”

I waited. There was always more.

“That's not far from your home,” he added, and the words carried weight beyond their simple meaning.

“We've been increasing patrols,” I said evenly. “If they're getting bolder⁠—”

“They're not getting bolder.” He cut me off. “They're getting desperate. Which means we need to move quickly.”

I nodded once. “I'll take care of it.”

Elias watched me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he stepped closer, and I fought the urge to step back. To put distance between us the way I had as a child, when his scrutiny burned like standing too close to a fire.

“August,” he said, his tone quieter now. Almost gentle. Almost. “Do you still believe in what we do?”

The question landed like a blow. I kept my face impassive, my shoulders squared, even as something twisted in my chest.

“Yes,” I said. The word came automatically, the answer I'd been trained to give.

But even as I said it, I heard the lie in it. Or not a lie, exactly. A question mark where certainty used to be.

Elias studied me. He'd always been able to see through me, to find the weak points in my armor. It was why I'd learned to build those walls so high.

After a long silence, he reached out and placed a hand on my shoulder. The touch was firm, meant to be reassuring. Instead it was a shackle.

“You know what happens to those who falter, August. And as much as it would pain me to unravel my own son, I will not be shaken in the cause.”

The words were delivered with that same careful tone, as if he were discussing the weather. As if the threat of erasing his own child from existence was just another matter of duty.

I wanted to ask: Would it pain you? Would you feel anything at all?

Instead, I said, “I don't falter.”

“Good.” He squeezed my shoulder once, then let go. “Because doubt is a sickness. And once it takes root, it spreads.”

He stepped back, returned to his position by the window. The moment of false warmth—if it could even be called that—was over.

“I expect results,” he said.

“I won't disappoint you.” The words rand hollow even as I spoke them. How many times had I said that? How many times had I tried to earn something—approval, affection, anything—from this man who saw me as nothing more than an extension of his mission?

I turned to leave, desperate to escape this room, this house, the suffocating weight of his expectations.

“One last matter.”

I stopped, my hand on the door.

“The Pembertons are hosting a dinner in four days' time,” Elias said. His thumb stroked the silver wolf-head on his cane, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “Every influential person in Oxford will be in attendance. I expect you to be there.”

“Of course.”