Page 28

For just a moment—half a breath—something flickered behind her eyes. Then the brightness returned, polished and perfect. “Yes! The wedding cake. How attentive you are.” Her gloved fingers settled over my hand, gentle enough to appear affectionate. “We simply must visit Fortnum & Mason. Their confectioner is divine. You’ll adore the tasting, I’m certain.”

Her touch was warm. Nothing more.

The carriage stopped before a building that gleamed like a promise kept to the very wealthy. Brass fixtures shone despite the grey afternoon. Towers of sugared confections stood behind glass.

Mrs. Sterling descended first—a woman who had never in her life been second through any door. Constance followed, then turned, expectant.

I stepped down after her.

We had nearly reached the entrance when the world fractured.

Across the street, sunlight caught in copper hair.

Not merely red—that particular burnished shade that seemed to hold its own light even on the dullest day. A color I had been trying, with increasing desperation, not to forget. She walked with two companions toward a bookshop, posture straight, movements purposeful. That stubborn tilt of her chin I’d know anywhere.

Lily.

My heart slammed against my ribs hard enough to hurt. Sensation flooded back all at once—air too sharp in my lungs, blood roaring in my ears, the world snapping into terrible focus.

This wasn't memory. This was presence. Her. Close enough to touch. Close enough to⁠—

My feet moved before thought could catch them. One step. Another. Away from the shop entrance, toward the street, toward her.

“August.”

Constance’s voice sharpened, the sweetness thinning.

I did not stop.

The thread inside my chest tightened, pulling, pulling. A physical drag, as if something had looped around my bones and was hauling me forward by brute force. The numbness cracked open. Everything came roaring back—desperate, aching need to reach her, to close the distance, to⁠—

“August!”

Her hand closed around my arm. The grip was stronger than it should have been.

“You are making a scene,” she said through a fixed smile, lips barely moving. “Kindly compose yourself.”

I turned, wrenching against her hold.

Across the street, the woman slowed.

She lifted her face.

The shape was wrong. The mouth too full, the jaw softer, the eyes an unfamiliar shade—a stranger wearing a color that did not belong to her.

The pendant pulsed, a glacial spike driven through my chest. Forget. Let go. Nothing there.

But the thread burned hotter in defiance.

She is here.

The woman stepped into the bookshop. Her companions followed. The door closed behind them with a quiet, obscene finality.

She was gone.

Yet, the pull did not vanish. It lingered, frantic and directionless, like a compass spinning when placed near a magnet.

“Come now, darling.” Constance’s voice returned to that practiced sweetness. But her eyes were hard. “Let’s go inside, shall we? I would prefer not to be humiliated.”