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Behind us Father barked for lanterns; steel rasped free of sheaths. The filaments were gone, the terrace doors juddering on their hinges as if nothing had touched them but wind.

Lily rose beside me—the necklace stinging the skin of my chest where the hidden hourglass lay. Instinct roared; I caught her shoulder and pushed her back into her chair.

“Don’t,” I breathed, lips almost against her ear. “You’ll be first in the crosshairs.”

Her pulse hammered beneath my fingers. “August⁠—”

“I will get her out.” I tightened my grip; it was the only promise I could forge in this black-lit moment. “But you must stay alive.”

“Why?” she hissed.

“I need the truth about my mother. In return, I bring Marigold out of this mess.”

Beyond us, Father demanded lanterns, order, obedience. Guards fumbled with tinder; flint sparked, failed. Panic writhed through the hall like smoke.

Her pulse hammered beneath my fingers. “If you betray her⁠—”

“I won't.”

I looked past her to Garrick. “Watch her.”

Garrick nodded, his grin sharp even in the dark.

I released Lily and moved.

Father’s vanguard was already converging on Marigold, blades out, shackles ready. Time to choose a side. I chose the girl.

The chandeliers still sputtered, half-lit at best, but Father had already wrestled the silence back beneath his boot heel.

“Secure the child,” he commanded. “Then see to the lights.”

I inhaled—cold, steady—sliding the sword back into its scabbard. Charging him in front of three hundred nobles would help no one; it would only sign Marigold’s death warrant alongside Lily’s.

I pivoted to the guards. “You heard him. The Unraveler’s safety first. I’ll escort the prisoner to the Spire.”

A dozen eyes flicked to Father for confirmation. He gave a curt nod; obedience rippled outward like thrown stones. Chains clicked; the girl swayed on her feet, dazed but still conscious.

As soon as we breached the ballroom door I wrapped my cloak round her shoulders, masking the worst of the blood. “Let’s move.”

The hallway swallowed us—vaulted arches, torch-smoke, the reek of tallow and panic. Whenever a servant scurried past, I barked the same order: “Clear the passage. The Unraveler’s directive.” None paused to argue.

The girl’s small voice trembled. “Where are you⁠—”

“Silent now,” I whispered, just loud enough for her to hear. “There’s a door more merciful than the one behind us. We’ll find it.”

At the foot of the servants’ spiral a figure stepped from shadow—Adeline.

“What do you think you’re doing, August?”

She spoke low, her words sharpened to keep the echo from racing upstairs.

“I’m keeping dinner from turning into a public execution,” I muttered, shifting so the girl was half-hidden behind me. “Now move.”

Adeline’s brow arched. “‘Move,’ he says—while he smuggles a bleeding Weaver past a dozen armed guards and the Unraveler himself.” She folded her arms. “You’re not the only one with a death wish, Hawthorne.”

“Spare me the sermon. I’ll claim I was overpowered.”

“One problem.” Adeline nodded toward my face. “Your nose is still perfect.”