Page 41 of The Threads Between

“He’s reckless. Infuriating. He makes jokes when he should be serious and he—“ Her voice caught. “He looks at me like I’m something worth looking at. And I don’t know what to do with that.”

“You let him,” I said. “That’s what you do with it. You let him look.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Is that what you're going to do? When you get him back to safety—will you let him see you?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “Tonight is just about getting him out. But after—when it’s time to complete the bond—I’ll have to open completely. And I don’t know if I can.”

Mira’s hand found mine and squeezed once. Brief. Warm. “Then we’ll both be terrified together. And maybe that’s enough.”

Maybe it was. Maybe terror shared was terror halved. Or maybe we were all just pretending to be brave because the alternative was falling apart.

Either way, we kept walking.

The main hall was a cathedral of red velvet and gold leaf, tiers of boxes rising toward a painted ceiling where Greek gods gazed down with indifferent beauty. Chandeliers scattered crystal light across three hundred faces—Parliament members, foreign dignitaries, aristocracy glittering in silk and jewels. They’d come to watch a woman be erased from existence, and they’d dressed for the occasion.

I found my seat in the orchestra section. Close enough to reach the stage during chaos. Far enough back that Elias wouldn’t immediately notice me moving.

The heat of three hundred bodies pressed against me. Perfume and gaslight and the rustle of expensive fabric—a theater full of people who smelled like money and certainty.

Somewhere in this crowd, Garrick sat ready, lamp oil hidden in his coat. Adeline was prepared to move the moment confusion began. And in the front row, Beatrice's silver head was visible.

Everyone in position.

My hands continued to tremble against my skirts. I pressed them flat again.

The crowd’s chatter built around me—excited speculation about the demonstration, whispered gossip about the Hawthornes, the casual cruelty of people discussing magic like a disease to be cured.

The gaslights dimmed.

Elias Hawthorne stepped onto the stage to thunderous applause. He wore formal evening dress, every inch the respectable gentleman. Distinguished grey at his temples. Calm, commanding presence. Nothing about him suggested monster. Nothing revealed the man who’d destroyed his own son to build a weapon.

He smiled at the audience, and they smiled back.

He began his speech. The same lies about safety and control, about protecting innocent people from magical corruption. The crowd nodded along, rapt, believing every word.

I barely heard it. My focus had narrowed to a single point: the curtains at the side of the stage. The curtain August would walk through. I could feel the ghost-thread pulling.

“I present to you,” Elias said, “the future of magical containment.”

The curtains opened.

And August stepped onto the stage.

The world stopped.

Three months since I’d seen his face and he was hollow. That was the only word for it. The sharp angles of his face had gone gaunt, shadows carved beneath his cheekbones. His dark hair fell limp across his forehead. And his eyes⁠—

His eyes were empty. Flat. Like someone had reached inside and scooped out everything that made him August and left only the shell behind.

The pendant hung at his throat, pulsing with a faint, sickly light.

My magic surged.

It happened before I could stop it—a desperate reaching, my restoration magic straining toward the pendant like it could close the distance through sheer want. The ghost-thread blazed hot in my chest, and for one terrible moment, I reached him—not just the connection, but August himself. The numbness. The cold. The small, guttering flame of who he’d been, barely surviving beneath the corruption.

I gasped. I couldn’t help it.

Not yet. Hold on.