Page 113 of The Threads Between

“Then I will follow you into Oxford.” Her chin lifted. “And if killing Elias Hawthorne brings my daughter vindication, I will follow his son through the gates of hell itself.”

She did not wait for a response. She simply adjusted her pace and fell back into the column, leaving me with the weight of her trust settling onto my shoulders alongside all the others.

Through the bond, Lily brushed against my awareness. She knew something had shifted, not the words but the weight of them.

You carry it differently now, she sent. Like it belongs to you instead of crushing you.

I let the weight settle. It was lighter with her beside me.

Garrick caught up to me as we crested a low hill, the fields spreading out before us in silver and shadow. My legs had found their rhythm by now, the kind of mindless stride that could carry a man for miles, and my breath misted in steady plumes that dissolved into the dark.

He was moving well. Mira's healing had done its work, the wound closed and mended. He still favored his left side slightly, an unconscious habit more than necessity, but he was whole and ready to fight.

“You look like a man marching to his own execution,” he said, falling into step beside me.

“I am marching to my father's,” I said. “Close enough.”

“That's the spirit.” He was quiet for a moment. “Strange, isn't it? All those years we rode at his side. Following his orders. Believing we were doing something righteous.”

“You knew better. I believed.”

“I suspected better. There's a difference.” Garrick glanced at me sideways. “Neither of us ever tried to stop it.”

“No.” There was no point in denying it. “We didn't.”

He was quiet again, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher. “We're going to have to live with that. Whatever happens tonight.”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He nodded once, sharply, like he was settling something with himself. “As long as we're clear.”

Behind us, a familiar figure was making her way up the column with poorly concealed determination. Mira. Her eyes were fixed on Garrick's back with an expression caught between exasperation and something she clearly wished wasn't showing on her face.

“Your shadow is approaching,” I said.

Garrick did not turn around. “I am aware. I can feel her disapproval from thirty paces. It has a very specific temperature.”

“She's been checking on you every quarter hour.”

“Every twenty minutes, actually. I've been timing it. She's slowing down, which means either she's getting tired or she's accepted that I'm not going to die. I choose to interpret it as progress.”

“The wound that is entirely healed.”

“August, if you finish that thought, I will reopen it myself just to give her something legitimate to fuss about.”

There was something in his voice that hadn't been there before, a warmth beneath the irritation. A man who was not entirely unhappy about being fussed over, even if he would never admit it aloud.

Mira reached us, slightly breathless.

“You're walking too fast,” she said to Garrick, not meeting his eyes. “You'll strain yourself.”

“I'm fine.”

“Fine is not the same as healed.” She fell into step on his other side, her shoulder nearly brushing his. Neither of them acknowledged the proximity. “If you collapse during the battle, I'm not dragging you to safety.”

“Yes you will.”

Mira's jaw tightened. She did not deny it.