Page 24 of The Threads Between

Then—barely there—warmth flickered.

The thread. The connection that refused to vanish entirely.

Please. Don’t let me forget completely. Don’t let me become this thing wearing my face.

The pendant pulsed cold. The warmth faded. And I couldn’t tell anymore if it had been there at all, or if I’d imagined it because the alternative—being completely alone inside my own skin—was too terrible to survive.

CHAPTER 8

LILY

Too little sleep. Too little food. Too much magic burning through my body like fever. The cellar had become the only room that mattered—its cold stone walls, its low ceiling, its oil lamps throwing my shadow long and warped. Ten days of training until I bled.

Three days left.

Three days until the opera house. Three days to learn something that should take months.

“Again,” Beatrice said.

I wiped the blood from my upper lip with the back of my hand and nodded. The restoration magic stirred in my chest, sluggish and reluctant. I’d already restored four severed threads this morning. My body wanted to stop, wanted to rest.

“August may not be here,” Beatrice said, her voice sharp. “But you need to practice the bonding stages.”

I looked up at her. “How? If he isn’t here.”

“You’ll practice on me.” She moved closer, and something almost like pity crossed her face. Then it was gone.

The cellar went quiet. Syra, against the far wall, pushed off it—not all the way, just enough to shift her weight forward. Watching. “That’s⁠—“

“Necessary.” Beatrice held out her hand. “Stages one and two. Sustained contact and opening your magic. You need to know what it feels like before you attempt it with August under those conditions.”

My stomach dropped. “But if I—if something goes wrong⁠—“

“Then we stop before stage four. Before the weaving becomes permanent.” Beatrice’s ice-blue eyes held mine. “It’s dangerous, yes. But not as dangerous as neither of you knowing what you are doing.”

“But August—“ I started. “He won't have practiced. Won't know what to expect.”

“Exactly.” Beatrice's expression hardened. “Which is why you need to master it well enough to guide him through it. The suppression will give him back his mind, but it won't give him knowledge. You'll have to talk him through every stage. Help him open his magic when he doesn't know how. Keep him focused when the pendant fights back.” Her voice dropped. “You need to know this process so thoroughly you can teach it while everything is falling apart.”

She wasn't wrong. I'd have to be August's anchor and his teacher at once. Calm enough for both of us.

“So yes,” Beatrice continued. “We practice. And we practice until you could do this in your sleep.”

I wiped my hands on my skirt and took her offered hand.

Her skin was cool. Papery. The bones beneath lay too close to the surface.

“Sustained contact,” Beatrice said quietly. “Don’t let go, no matter what you feel.”

I nodded.

“Now open your magic. Drop every defense. Let me see everything.”

The restoration magic rose in my chest—warm, golden, familiar. It had been my constant companion for months now. The thing that bled me dry and kept me alive in equal measure. I knew its rhythms. Its hunger.

But I’d never opened it completely. Not like this.

Opening magic was like peeling away skin—every barrier I'd built to keep myself safe, to keep others safe from me, had to fall. I reached for the first wall and let it drop. Immediately, cold pressed against my chest. Beatrice’s magic, waiting on the other side.