Page 4 of The Threads Between

“And then what?” Syra shot back. “We walk in, smile politely, and take the Unraveler’s prized weapon home with us?” She crossed her arms. “We can’t just grab him, Lily. Not without getting ourselves killed. Or worse, unraveled.”

Ysella’s name didn’t need to be spoken. It sat in the space between us anyway.

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Do you?” Syra turned on me. “Because from where I’m standing, this looks like Oxford all over again. Fifty-seven Weavers erased in less than a minute. Every Weaver except you.”

“It won’t be suicide.” Adeline stepped in, folding the newspaper with the same precise, controlled movements she used for everything—each crease deliberate, the edges aligned. “The Wolfe name still carries weight here. I can secure invitations. We’ll be just another group of wealthy patrons attending a demonstration.”

Marigold tugged at her sleeve from the floor. “What if Elias recognizes us?”

“He won’t,” Adeline said. “Syra can use her Seer abilities to make us look unrecognizable.”

Syra’s head snapped toward her, incredulous. “You want me to split threads of sight for an entire opera house?”

“You’ve done it before,” Adeline said.

Her mouth curved. “Yes. Make the hunters see dull aristocrats instead of fugitives. I’ve done it before.” She smoothed her cuff—the stiff taffeta of the London dress she'd been forced into, a far cry from the loose wool she'd worn in Oxford. The fabric didn't move with her. None of their new clothes did. “Though I can’t promise my concentration won’t slip if I’m forced to watch the man who erased my sister show off his new pet.”

The air tightened.

“How long can you hold it?” I asked.

“A few hours if nothing interesting happens.” She gave me a pointed look. “Longer if properly motivated.”

“And avoiding Elias Hawthorne?” Adeline asked.

“That” —her eyes went flat—“is motivation.”

Adeline moved to the window. Late afternoon light caught the edge of her jaw, sharpened by the line of her collar. She looked out at whatever version of London existed beyond this hallway—the one where people attended demonstrations for pleasure—and then turned back to me. “What about you? Are you ready?”

I thought of the cellar. Three months of reaching into the void until my hands shook and my skull ached. Threads breaking. And learning, slowly, how to pull them back together. Three months wasn't enough, not for this.

“She’s improved,” Syra admitted grudgingly. “First week, she could barely sense a cut thread. Now she can restore one in under a minute.”

“That’s not the same as bringing back an unraveled,” Adeline said carefully.

“I almost brought Ysella back.” The word almost tasted like ash. “I know how close I can get. And I know what stopped me.”

Marigold’s hand found mine from her place on the floor. “What happens to you when you do it? The restoring?”

The room stilled.

“It drains me,” I admitted. “Sometimes it feels like I’m pulling pieces of myself into the void to fill the gaps. I don’t know what it would take to bring someone all the way back.”

Syra paced two steps toward the far wall and stopped. “So you’d be using untested magic,” she said flatly, “inside a room where a corrupted Threadbreaker is being forced to demonstrate his power.”

“Yes.”

“And you think this is a good plan?”

“No. I think it’s a terrible one. But it’s the only one we have.”

Syra stared at me. Then, she laughed—sharp, bitter, but genuine.

“You know what? Ysella would’ve loved this. Terrible plans were her specialty.”

“But what if he does what he did in Oxford?” Marigold asked, her voice small but steady. “The big magic. The kind that takes everyone.”