Page 39

“She’s wrong.” Adeline studied me with unsettling intensity. “Though to be fair, August let her believe it longer than he should have. He has an unfortunate habit of avoiding difficult conversations until they become impossible ones.”

I thought of August's expression when Mrs. Hartley had announced Constance's arrival. The resigned dread. “He said he was planning to end things with her.”

“Did he?” Adeline's eyebrow arched. “Or was he planning to continue letting it drift until his father arranged the wedding and he had no choice?”

The question landed uncomfortably. Because I didn't know. Didn't know August well enough to say whether his claim was genuine or just something he'd told himself to avoid being trapped.

“Either way,” Adeline continued, “your presence has forced his hand. Constance won't tolerate another woman in his house, legitimate cousin or not. He'll have to make a decision now.”

“That wasn't my intention.”

“I know.” She picked up a small cake from the tea tray, examining it with more attention than it deserved. “Though I suspect you're not particularly sorry about it either.”

Heat crept up my neck. “I don't have any designs on August, if that's what you're implying.”

“Don't you?” The question was mild, almost curious. “Because you looked at each other with remarkable intensity when I arrived. The air was practically crackling.”

“We'd just had an argument.”

“Mmm.” She didn't sound convinced. “Well. Regardless of your intentions, you've complicated his life considerably. Which, speaking as someone who's known August since we were children, is probably good for him.”

“Good for him?”

“He’s too controlled. Too careful. Following his father’s path because it’s easier than carving his own. You make him question that—and for someone like August, doubt is dangerous.”

“Dangerous how?”

“Dangerous because men like him, who've built their entire lives on certainty, don't know how to handle doubt.” Her gaze locked on mine. “Which is why you need to be very careful about what you make him doubt. And why.”

The warning was clear. I took a sip of tea to buy myself time, but Adeline wasn't finished.

“Now.” She set down her cup with the finality of a judge's gavel. “Let's discuss what happened during your walk this morning.”

My stomach dropped. “August gave you a full report?”

“He gave me context. You witnessed an arrest. Nearly caused a scene defending a Weaver you'd never met.” She stood, moving to the window. “He said you were distraught. That the woman being arrested reminded you of your research.”

“The disappeared people. The ones the Unraveler erased from existence.”

“Careful.” Adeline's spine straightened. “Those are dangerous accusations.”

“Are they accusations if they're true?”

She turned back to face me, something unreadable flickering in her expression. “What do you think of them? The Weavers.”

The question was loaded. Like the wrong answer would shatter whatever fragile trust we'd built.

I thought of the little girl from the forest who'd saved me, whose voice had bloomed impossibly in my mind this morning. Tomorrow. Nine. Old bell tower.

I pictured the woman being dragged through the streets in chains, jeered at by strangers. Of August's maps, covered in pin markings.

“I think,” I said carefully, “that calling an entire group of people monsters makes it easier to justify hunting them.”

Adeline went very still.

“And I think,” I continued, because apparently I was incapable of self-preservation, “that the people in power always decide who gets to be called dangerous. And that those decisions are rarely about actual threat and more about control.”

The silence stretched. I waited for her to call for August, to declare me a Weaver sympathizer, to end this entire charade.