Page 9 of The Last Stitch

What troubled me wasn't the magic itself.

It was her.

The woman in strange clothing who'd stared at me with eyes full of confusion and terror, as if she had no notion of where she was or what was happening. She hadn't the bearing of a Weaver. Hadn't moved like one either. Weavers carried themselves with a certain confidence, an awareness of their power. This woman had been genuinely frightened, scrambling through the forest like prey rather than predator.

And her attire. Dark blue trousers that hugged her legs—trousers, on a woman. Boots with thick rubber soles. A garment of soft fabric that clung to her frame in a manner no proper dress ever would. Nothing I'd ever seen before.

“August.” Garrick's voice pulled me back. “You're doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“That business where you disappear into your own head.” He studied my face with the familiarity of someone who'd known me since we were boys sneaking into Father's library. “What's really troubling you about last night?”

“The woman,” I said finally. “Did you mark her clothing?”

“Difficult to miss.” Garrick's expression was carefully neutral. “Strange fashion. Foreign, perhaps?”

“I don't believe so.” The words came out steady despite my uncertainty. “And the way she looked about, the way she moved. It wasn't pretense. She was genuinely lost.”

“Weavers are excellent liars.”

“I know. But—” I stopped outside Father's study, one hand on the door. “What if she wasn't one of them?”

Garrick went still. “August. Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't start questioning.” His jaw tightened. “We lost twelve Weavers last night. Someone will answer for that. Don't give him cause to make it you.”

The door opened before I could knock.

Father stood in the entrance, backlit by fire. He looked exactly as he’d looked when we left—immaculate coat, precise posture, eyes like winter itself.

“Come in.” He stepped aside. “Both of you.”

The study seemed smaller than usual, the walls pressing close. Father moved to his desk with measured steps, each one deliberate. He didn't look at us. Didn't speak. Just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the map on his wall where Oxford spread out in careful detail.

Red pins marked confirmed Weaver locations. Black pins marked suspected nests. And in Thornwick Woods, a cluster of black pins that had been there for three weeks. The gathering we'd gone to disrupt.

They remained. Mocking us.

“Twelve Weavers,” Father said finally, his voice soft. Dangerous. “Against six of my best hunters. And you returned with nothing.”

“Sir—” I began.

“They used coordinated illusion magic to separate and disorient us,” Garrick said, his tone professional. “By the time we'd regrouped, they'd scattered.”

“You were outmatched.” Father turned, and the disappointment in his eyes cut deeper than any blade. “By Weavers who should have been easy prey.”

“They weren't alone,” I said. “There were others in the forest. Hidden. A woman I didn't recognize. Captured with a young Weaver.”

“A woman.” Father's expression didn't change. “A Weaver as well, no doubt. Did she engage?”

I thought about the chaos that had erupted from nowhere. “The child may have been the source of some of the illusions. But the woman. . .” I hesitated. “She ran as though she didn't know what was happening.”

“A decoy, perhaps.” He moved to his desk, pulling out a leather-bound journal. “The Weavers are growing more sophisticated in their tactics. Using children, staging elaborate performances to throw us off their trail.”

“Morrison is injured,” I said carefully. “Ashby as well. Had we pressed the attack⁠—”