Page 11 of The Threads Between

The thread resisted at first—it always did—but I’d learned not to force it. Instead I coaxed. My magic flowed through the gap, pulling the ends together. The repair showed—a molten scar running through the thread.

But it held.

Beatrice studied it for a long moment, then reached out and tested it, her magic prodding at the join.

“Crude,” she said finally. “But effective.”

“That rather sums up Lily’s entire philosophy,” Garrick offered from his chair. “Crude but effective. Someone ought to embroider it on a cushion for her.”

I shot him a look, but he just grinned.

Beatrice ignored him entirely. Her attention had shifted—not to the repaired thread but to me. She crossed the space between us in two steps and pressed her palm flat against my sternum without asking.

Her magic moved through me. I held still.

“How long have you been bleeding when you restore?” she asked.

The room went still. Syra straightened against the wall.

“A month, maybe more,” I said. “It's getting worse.”

Beatrice withdrew her hand. Her expression hadn't changed, but something behind her eyes had gone very quiet.

“We'll come back to that,” she said. “First—tell me about Oxford.”

“When Ysella was being Unraveled, I reached for her. Tried to pull her back.” I swallowed. “I almost succeeded. I could feel her essence beginning to reform. But August . . . ” His name caught in my throat. “August was forced to sever my connection before I could finish.”

Beatrice turned away from me and moved to her satchel. She knelt slowly, joints protesting, and pulled out a worn leather journal, handling it the way Mrs. Hartwick handled the tea: both hands, careful, like it mattered.

“His mother was powerful,” she said, opening the journal on her knees. “She called it thread-singing. The ability to hear what the Weave was trying to say and answer back.” Her fingers paused on a page. “But magic has its cost, and you're all aware of what it cost her.”

The ghost-thread flared in my chest. I pressed my palm against my sternum, and Beatrice’s gaze tracked the gesture.

“You feel him,” she said.

“Always.” The word came out barely above a whisper. “Since Oxford. It’s like he burned himself into my bones, and the connection won’t break.”

“May I?”

I nodded.

Her magic touched my chest—cold against the steady warmth burning there. It traced the connection. She drew in a breath.

“Remarkable,” she murmured. She withdrew and stood, bracing one hand on the chair arm, then opened the journal to a page dense with sketches of thread patterns. “I've never seen a bond like this. Not a simple thread connecting two Weavers. This is deeper. Fundamental.”

She held the journal so the firelight caught the sketches. Syra leaned forward from the wall, eyes narrowing at the patterns.

“His magic recognized hers,” Beatrice said, addressing the room now, not just me. “And when he unraveled Oxford, when that corrupted power swept through the city, destroying every Weaver in its path, it encountered her and stopped.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you’re his opposite.” She said it like it was obvious. “He’s a Threadbreaker. You’re a Void Caller.”

The fire cracked. No one spoke.

“Creation and severance. Two halves of the same impossible whole. There cannot be one without the other. Nature requires balance.” She turned a page in the journal. “Threadbreakers don't erase existence. They break what's bound, cut what should never have been tied. They're wild magic, untethered to normal Weaver rules. The pendant was meant to focus August's power. Elias corrupted it. Turned it into a conduit for his own unraveling magic, forced through a Threadbreaker's strength.”

“So, Oxford . . . ”