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“Go back to sleep,” Mira said.
“Bossy.”
“Insufferable.”
“There,” the driver called.
A weathered farmhouse stood alone on a small rise—stone walls, thatched roof, smoke rising from the chimney. The kind of place that had stood for generations and would stand for generations more. Invisible unless you knew to look.
The cart pulled into the yard. Chickens scattered, protesting. A dog barked once, then quieted at a word from someone inside.
The door opened before we'd fully stopped.
An older woman emerged—apron stained with flour, the kind of face that had seen hard work and hadn't complained. Hands reached in to help us out. The Weavers moved with quiet efficiency, guiding us through the door into warmth that embraced us after hours in the cold.
The woman’s gaze swept over us, assessing injuries, calculating needs.
“Inside,” she said simply. “Quickly.”
The farmhouse interior was simple but clean—stone floors, a low-beamed ceiling, a fire burning in a massive hearth. The scent of bread baking and herbs drying in bundles from the rafters.
“Sit the injured one here,” the woman directed, gesturing toward an arm chair. “You—the healer—you'll need clean water. Bandages are in the cupboard.”
She moved like someone accustomed to emergencies. Like this wasn't the first time fugitives had arrived bleeding in her yard.
Garrick eased himself into the chair. He was pale from the journey, but his eyes were clear when they opened.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Safe-house,” Mira said. “Oxfordshire. Between London and Oxford.”
“How far did we travel?”
“Far enough.”
“Always so specific.”
Despite everything, her mouth almost curved.
The silver-haired woman who'd led the rescue—Beth, she'd told us on the road—stood by the door, speaking quietly with the woman of the house. Money changed hands—payment for supplies, for risk. Then she turned to us.
“More of us are coming,” she said simply.
“Coming?” I looked up.
“Word has spread. About Oxford. About the opera house. About what you're trying to do.” She paused. “Ysella's call in the fall—to stand together, to stop hiding—it's finally reaching the ones who were too afraid to answer before.”
“How many?” August asked quietly.
“Forty arrived this morning at various safe houses in the area. More are expected by tomorrow.” She met his gaze. “Weavers who've been in hiding for years. Decades, some of them. They heard that someone was finally fighting back. That a Void Caller walks among us. And with her, the only male Weaver ever born—a Threadbreaker.”
The only male Weaver. Ever. The weight of that settled into my chest alongside the ghost-thread. Not one of few. The only one. No wonder Elias had been so desperate to control him—to ensure that if a male Weaver had to exist, he would exist as a tool rather than a threat.
Beth's voice dropped. “They want to help. However they can.”
“Elias has resources,” she continued. “Connections. Hunters loyal to his cause. But so do we now. And we're done running.” She looked around at all of us. “Use the time you have to rest, because we are no longer waiting for the fight. We will bring it to him.”
She moved toward the door, then paused.
