IT DIDN’T FEEL APPROPRIATE TO LAUGH. NOT AT THE SITUATION, NOR at the man
who had bared his soul to her and seemed terrified of what she might do with it. And so Signa didn’t laugh despite how it bubbled nervously within her, for this was one of the most preposterous things she’d ever heard.
“You’re not saying anything.” Fate’s jaw flexed. “Please, say something.”
Signa opened her mouth, only for the words to curdle like cream upon her tongue. He was Fate—he knew how a person’s life would play out, just as he must have known who was behind Lord Wakefield’s murder and how they might save Elijah. Signa may not have been the person he wanted her to be, but she also couldn’t afford to have this man as her enemy.
“You think I’m… what? Your reincarnated lover?” Her mouth felt as raw as if she’d swallowed glass as Fate closed the space between them. “Why on earth would you think it’s me?”
“For every human life, there is a tapestry that defines their fate,” he said. “On yours were threads of silver that I did not sew. My threads are gold while Death’s are black. And yours… yours have always been silver.”
She didn’t look at him as he spoke, but at the glistening gold threads around them. They were everywhere. He had stilled every body in the room. Had brought time to a standstill. And yet, even with all that, there wasn’t so much as a bead of sweat on his brow.
She’d always known that Death was powerful, though his abilities often came in large, sudden bursts—sharp wind, or a deadly touch. Fate’s power felt more consuming. It was infinite and terrifying, and all Signa could do was ease her hand toward the belladonna berries she carried with her.
“There are not enough colors in this world for every person to have their own,” she whispered. “So why do I?”
Signa stilled as Fate took her chin between two fingers and tipped her head back so that she could look only at him. “Because you’re not a regular human, and you’re not a reaper, either. You are Life, and you have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you.” He had a look in his eyes that almost made Signa draw back when she realized what it was—hunger. Like he was a starved man, and she was a feast laid before him.
Life.
Life.
This time, Signa could not control the laugh that escaped her. She threw both hands over her mouth, smothering the sound, but it was too late. He thought she was Life? Good God, where had he been these past several months?
Fate’s eyes narrowed, deep lines knitting between his brows. “You do not feel a pull toward Death because you are a reaper, Miss Farrow. You feel a pull toward him because he’s the one who took you from me. In another time, you were my wife.”
Another laugh bubbled in her throat, though she fought this one down. His wife! The very idea was ludicrous, for this man had clearly never witnessed her deathly powers in action.
“It’s your brother that I love.” Signa spoke low and soft, as though placating a skittish fawn. “I’m not who you think I am, but I’ll help you look for her. We can find Life together.”
From the way Fate drew back, one might think she’d struck the man across the face. The gold in his eyes burned molten, and behind him all of Wisteria quivered. For a sliver of a moment Signa once again saw the palace for what it truly was—bare gray walls and cracked slate floors. Empty, hollow, and as lifeless as his marionettes that swayed as the ground beneath them trembled, kept on their feet only by their golden threads. Then they were back in the amber ballroom and surrounded by the laughter of guests, the transition so fast that Signa had to convince herself it wasn’t her imagination.
“My tapestries do not lie.” Fate was no longer reserved nor coy. His movements were erratic as he took her by the shoulders, bending to capture her gaze. “I am not a man who begs, but I am begging now for you to listen
to me. I am begging you to think, Miss Farrow. To think about what it is that you want. Are you happy to spend the rest of your life surrounded by death? By pain and grief?”
Signa didn’t realize she was shaking until she reached up to knock him away from her. “It’s not so gruesome as that,” she whispered, recalling the night she’d first seen a soul, or the night Death had taken her to the bridge into the afterlife. “Death is simply the way of things.”
“‘The way of things’?” Fate scoffed. “What if those hands of yours could do more than kill? I could show you how. I could teach you. You’d want that, wouldn’t you?”
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
Signa had only recently accepted the darkness within her, and found the beauty in it, and yet… There was that whisper, again. The one that warned if she was so hesitant to admit to Blythe what she was and the things she could do, then perhaps she was an abomination.
She didn’t want Blythe to be afraid of her. She didn’t want anyone she loved to fear her. But if they knew the truth… how could they not? There wasn’t a soul alive who would welcome a reaper with open arms.
Only for that reason did Signa feel a pull toward Fate’s promise, though there was no world in which she could entertain his help. If not because of how it would affect Death, then because she’d only recently started to feel comfortable in her own skin, and the idea of once again opening herself up for exploration was terrifying. And so Signa did not answer the question about her powers. Instead, she told Fate, “No matter what you say or what you might think, I love your brother. I will not leave him, nor is it fair to keep me away from him.”
Fate’s smile thinned, a darkness stirring in his eyes. “They say that all is fair in love and war. I have built my trench and brought my rifles, and I have no intention of retreating. I will pursue you until you remember who you are. If that means I need to court you, Signa Farrow, I will. Flowers, promenades, even poetry if that’s what you want. Whatever it is you enjoy, I will learn, and eventually you’ll remember the life we once had.”
This wasn’t going at all how Signa had expected. She could feel the prickle of nerves along her chest and had to step away to take the fan from Diana’s frozen hand, flipping it open in a desperate attempt to cool herself.
Fate had to be wrong. She wasn’t Life. She couldn’t be. She had killed her aunt Magda. She’d stolen lives, not given them. Fate was a foolishly hopeful man. But perhaps there was a way to use that to her advantage.
“Make a deal with me.” There was hardly time to consider her words before she spoke them aloud, stilling her fan.
“A deal?” he echoed. “I’m not certain that you understand the magnitude of making a deal with me.”
Of course she didn’t. A bargain with Fate felt every bit as dangerous as one with Death, and yet Signa could not seem to stop herself. If this was her one opportunity, she had to seize it. “I do not have to stand idly by while you throw flowers at me or show up at my doorstep. But if you restore my ability to communicate with Death, then I will entertain this fantasy of yours.”
Fate’s jaw clenched, and Wisteria Gardens felt like a furnace against her skin, the air stifling and oppressive. Though she wanted little more than to retreat to a window and escape the heat of his severity, Signa kept her shoulders squared and her chin held high until Fate’s expression turned sour.
“I have conditions. First, your communication with Death will only be restored during the evenings after you and I meet.”
When she opened her mouth to argue, his lifted brows halted her protest. It seemed this deal was as good as it was going to get. “And you swear to honor this bargain?”
“Of course I do.” Each word was clipped. “It matters little in the grand scheme of things. Eventually you will remember me, and when you do you’ll decide to stop communication with him on your own. That will be better than any revenge I could imagine.”
Signa’s breath burned her throat. He was too confident. Too calculated. But what choice did she have? “Very well. Count tonight as our first outing, and I accept.” She spoke so quietly that she wouldn’t have been certain she’d said the words aloud if not for the sight of Fate’s grin. While she’d thought he was enigmatic before, it was like she’d flipped a switch with those last two words. He was practically glowing.
“Deals with Fate are binding, Miss Farrow. When I wish to collect, you must be ready.” He spoke as though he was savoring every word.
Signa had read enough fairy stories to know not to agree so easily.
“Three events or outings are all you get. And after that, you’ll restore my ability to communicate with Death in full.”
His laugh had shivers rolling up her spine. “A month,” he corrected, “during which I may call upon you multiple times.”
It was less time than she’d expected, though still long enough that Signa did not have to fake her frustration. “Very well,” she agreed, “but I have one more question you must answer first—who killed Lord Wakefield?”
To her surprise, Fate’s grin never wavered. “There is no more music, and we are no longer dancing.” All at once bodies twisted toward the doors, the guests marching like soldiers down the stairs. “I hope that your evening was as lovely as mine. I will see you again soon, Miss Farrow.”
She did not linger or allow herself to spend so much as a second reconsidering the situation she’d gotten herself into. As the rest of the guests filed out of the ballroom, Signa gathered her skirts and fled Wisteria Gardens.
