Page 33 of The Threads Between

“Already secured. But I need to confirm our seats in person. Wolfe family protocol.” Adeline adjusted her glamoured face slightly. “The family’s solicitor keeps offices two streets over. It won’t take long.”

We walked in silence through Mayfair’s pristine streets. My legs felt unsteady, as though the pavement shifted beneath each step. The echo of that sudden flare in my chest hadn’t faded—heat, urgency, the unmistakable pull of him somewhere nearby. Every passing carriage tightened my throat. Every dark coat in the crowd made my pulse jump before reason caught up.

The solicitor’s office was tucked between a gentlemen’s club and an art gallery—all brass plaques and polished wood, the kind of place that smelled faintly of ink and old money even from the street. Adeline went inside alone; Syra and I waited on the pavement, trying to look like respectable women on respectable errands instead of fugitives counting down the hours to something that could kill us all.

“He was there,” Syra said quietly. “August.”

My breath caught. “You saw him?”

She nodded once. “Just before we went inside the bookshop. Across the street, near the confectioner’s. He seemed confused—desperate. Like he could feel something was wrong but couldn’t locate it. He felt you. Even through the glamour.”

“If he was that close, why didn't we—“ I stopped, but the question hung between us anyway.

“Because the pendant would have fought us, and we'd have been arrested or worse. Without Beatrice's suppression, he's still corrupted. Still dangerous.” Her jaw tightened. “The opera house gives us chaos, a plan, and Beatrice ready to act. Today was confirmation that he's still in there. Still feeling you. That's all we needed.”

I pressed my hand against my sternum, where the ghost-thread had finally settled back to its usual flicker.

“At the opera house, he'll feel you again. Be ready for that. Be ready for him to react.”

Adeline emerged from the building, tucking a sheaf of papers into her reticule.

“Done. Front row seats for Beatrice and Mira. Orchestra level for Garrick and me.” She glanced at me. “And one additional seat in the orchestra section, for you. Close enough to reach him when Beatrice suppresses the pendant.” Her expression darkened. “It’s not perfect. But it’s the best we can do.”

The walk back to Clerkenwell took longer than the journey there—partly because Syra was concentrating on holding the glamours steady, partly because my legs still felt shaky from the near-miss. We moved through increasingly less expensive neighborhoods until finally we reached Mrs. Hartwick’s familiar brick facade.

Syra released the glamours the moment we stepped inside. The strange cobweb sensation slid off my skin, leaving me dizzy with relief.

“Finally,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. “Maintaining three simultaneous glamours is exhausting.”

“You did well,” Adeline said.

“I did perfectly.” Syra straightened, smoothing her skirts. “Now let’s give Marigold her books before she decides we’ve forgotten.”

We found her in the kitchen with Mira, attempting to help prepare dinner. Or attempting to attempt—Mira kept redirecting her enthusiastic knife work into safer tasks involving bread and stirring.

“Lily!” Marigold looked up as we entered, her face lit up. “Did you find something good?”

“Maybe,” I said, keeping the wrapped parcel behind my back. “But first—do you know what day it is?”

Her eyes flicked between us, like she was trying to read the room before letting herself answer. “Tuesday?”

“Also known as,” Adeline said, lighting the candles arranged on the table, “February second. Also known as⁠—“

“Your birthday!” Syra finished, grabbing the package with theatrical flourish. “Did you truly think we would forget?”

Marigold’s eyes widened. “I didn’t want to say anything. You’re all so busy with the opera house and⁠—“

“We are never too busy for this,” Mira said firmly. “Eleven years old deserves celebration.”

Marigold accepted the parcel with trembling hands, unwrapping it with reverence as though the paper itself mattered. When she saw the books—three new volumes with gilt-lettered spines—her entire face transformed.

“Adventure stories,” she breathed, running her fingers over the covers. “Real ones. Not the dreadful kind about being proper.”

“Real ones,” I said. “About brave people who do impossible things.”

“Like you,” she said, looking up at me. “Like all of you.”

Something inside my chest loosened—a tightness I hadn’t realized I’d been carrying since Mayfair. The kitchen smelled of bread and herbs, candlelight softening the worn walls, Mira smiling despite herself as Marigold clutched the books like treasure. For a moment, it felt impossibly normal, warm and safe.