Page 10 of The Threads Between

“I’ve been living in Clerkenwell and plotting rescue missions,” she said dryly, smoothing her plain dress. “It’s very character-building.”

“It suits you. Better than all those vapid garden parties ever did.”

“Mother would be appalled,” Adeline said softly.

“Mother is always appalled. It’s her natural state.” The smirk returned. “At least now she has legitimate reasons.”

My attention had already shifted to the woman standing in the doorway.

Beatrice Sharpe didn’t smile. Didn’t offer pleasantries or warm greetings. She simply looked at each of us in turn—Adeline, Syra, Marigold, me. Her magic brushed against mine. Not invasive, just assessing. Like a physician checking for fever.

Her gaze settled on me. Sharpened.

“You’re the one who survived,” she said.

Not a question.

“I survived,” I agreed quietly.

“Interesting.” She set her satchel down carefully—not on a chair, on the floor, where she could reach it. “Mira tells me you can restore the Unraveled.”

“I’m learning.”

“Show me.”

Two words. No preamble.

Syra pushed off the doorframe. “Perhaps after you’ve rested⁠—“

“Three days in a coach that smelled of wet dog and desperation. I’m tired of resting.” Beatrice’s attention hadn’t wavered from me. “Well?”

Garrick leaned toward Mira and stage-whispered, “Charming woman. I can see why you two got along so well.”

“We got along,” Mira said through gritted teeth, “because I know when to stop talking.”

Garrick pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded.”

Beatrice’s gaze landed on him like frost settling. “If you’d prefer, Mr. Wolfe, you can return to that coach and continue being useless somewhere else.”

He winced theatrically. “Straight to the quick. I appreciate a woman who doesn’t mince words.”

“Garrick,” Adeline warned.

“What? I’m being perfectly helpful.” He made his way to the adjacent sitting room and threw himself into the nearest chair. “Do carry on with your terrifying magical assessment. Pay me no mind whatsoever.”

I glanced at Syra, who shrugged—your funeral—then nodded at Beatrice.

We moved into the sitting room. Worn furniture, faded curtains, a hearth that Marigold had finally convinced someone to light. The flames threw dancing shadows across the walls. Adeline closed the pocket doors behind us with a soft click.

The others arranged themselves around the edges of the space—Mira by the window with her arms crossed, Syra against the far wall, Marigold perched on the ottoman near the fire—while Beatrice claimed the center like it was hers by right. She lifted her hand, and her magic rose, shimmering in the firelight with a cleanness I hadn't managed in weeks.

Then she cut it. It hung between us, glowing faintly, its ends drifting like they were underwater. Waiting.

“Restore it.”

I inhaled and reached inward. The restoration magic rose easier now than it had a week ago—practice and desperation had honed it into something almost reliable. Warm gold threads poured from my chest and wrapped around the broken strand.

My magic traced the break, the absence where wholeness should be, and I began to weave.