THERE HAD BEEN A TIME AT THE START OF THE SEASON WHEN HOPEFUL men

called on the ladies of Thorn Grove every Monday and Thursday. They’d come with lavish gifts and sweet sentiments, only to be met with Blythe’s easy dismissal and Signa’s apologies. Those men had trickled out over the weeks, disappearing entirely after Lord Wakefield’s death. While this had irritated Byron so much that he never once turned the page of the paper he’d been pretending to read, Signa was now thankful for the time it allowed her to spend with Blythe, curled upon a chaise in the drawing room and sharing their theories and hunting for Lord Wakefield’s murderer while Byron likely suspected they were gossiping about men.

Blythe had been quiet since the previous day’s incident in the study, though, and often Signa would catch her cousin’s eyes wandering to her, scrutinizing Signa in a way she never had before. Surely, she couldn’t have known that Signa had anything to do with what had happened, and yet…

“What about Charlotte?” Blythe whispered, her legs drawn beneath her as a cup of tea steamed her face. “In books the killer is always the quiet one.”

“The only thing Charlotte wants is a good match this season.” Signa was grateful that despite the abysmal turnout they were having on their visiting day, Byron still insisted on having fresh scones and hot tea readily available. Since summoning the reaper’s powers the day prior, an inexplicable tiredness had settled over Signa’s body, making her thoughts fuzzy and her body ache. She slathered a scone with lemon curd and hoped that the sugar might revive her. “What are your thoughts of Everett?”

Blythe’s face contorted, though she gave Signa no time to question the

strange expression before she smoothed it away and answered, “I imagine he wants to find the killer as much as we do. Not to mention I’ve never even heard the man raise his voice.”

“Nor have I,” Signa agreed. “Though gaining the duke’s title does give him a motive.”

“Perhaps, but what benefit would that have to him now? He was always set to inherit, and it’s not as though he’s lacking money or status.”

“At least none that we know of,” Signa countered though it was a weak argument. There was always a chance that the murder had been random, though in all Signa’s years surrounded by the dead, when it came to murder, it tended to be those closest to the victim who were responsible.

It would be unwise to rule out Everett, even if all she could think of was his sheer devastation and the hollowness of his eyes as he wilted over his father’s corpse. Lord Wakefield’s relatives were not the only suspects in question, however.

Though Signa felt the prickling of anxiety along her skin, she forced out the next words in a whisper: “Byron has a motive, too, you know.” She slid him a sidelong look, ensuring he was still distracted by the newspaper. “He’s always wanted Grey’s.”

To Signa’s surprise, Blythe took the theory in stride.

“I know. But cold as Byron can be, he loves his family. Still… it would be silly not to consider it, which is why I sneaked into his study.”

Never—not even in the presence of Death—had Signa’s blood gone so cold. “Did you find anything interesting?”

Footsteps sounded down the hall just as Blythe grabbed Signa’s hand and opened her mouth to speak. Byron straightened as a maid came into the parlor with a single calling card set in the middle of a silver tray. His eyes flashed toward the girls.

“Right yourselves at once,” he hissed. “It’s the prince.”

Never had Signa imagined that she could feel so relieved by Fate’s arrival.

Blythe practically flew to the piano bench near the back of the room, but not before tugging at Signa’s bodice. She tried her best to lower it until Signa swatted her hand away and readjusted herself in time to hear the snap of Fate’s boots as he made his grand entrance.

He looked just as he did the last time Signa had seen him, which was to

say that he was handsome by a majority vote, dignified, and as confidently pretentious as could be. Though the parlor itself brightened with his presence, Signa’s prospects for the day grew drearier by the second.

“A pleasure, Mr. Hawthorne.” Fate bowed his head, his hands too full of more ridiculous flowers to properly shake Byron’s.

“Prince Aris, the pleasure is all ours.” Byron ushered him forward. “Please, have a seat and let us get you some tea.” The girls shared a look. Never had either of them heard Byron be so… accommodating. “Blythe, why don’t you give your cousin some privacy?”

“I’m quite fine where I am, thank you,” Blythe said from her spot on the piano bench, close enough to listen to any conversation if she really strained. “I do think Mr. Worthington has his eye on me, and I wouldn’t want to offend him if he shows up today.” She didn’t turn to see Byron’s scowl and instead pressed her fingers to the piano keys, beginning a beautiful piece that Signa noticed was too soft, as though Blythe was not fully pressing down.

It truly was astounding how nosy she was.

Fate crossed the floor to take a seat beside Signa, wisteria once again draping from a bouquet in his hands. “Hello, Miss Farrow.” When he tried to hand it to her, she checked to see if Byron was watching. Given that he was, she accepted the bouquet, her knuckles white as she clutched it to her chest.

“Hello, Your Highness. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

“Is it truly so unexpected?” The room’s temperature had plummeted by the time Fate approached. Though Signa knew from the chill that Death was near, Fate didn’t betray where his brother stood with so much as a glance as he asked, “Do you like the flowers?”

She sniffed, feeling a sneeze coming on as she set them on a side table.

“You certainly do have a penchant for your favorite things, don’t you?” Signa hadn’t noticed before just how much his nose tended to scrunch up with his distaste.

“They’re your favorites,” he corrected. “Or at least they were.” Fate stilled as Signa adjusted herself so that she was angled between him and Blythe. His attention shifted between the two of them before he unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat and took a seat.

“I’ve no intention of harming your cousin.”

“Why should I believe you?” Signa challenged in her fiercest whisper. “You’ve already imprisoned one Hawthorne.”

His teeth snapped together with an audible click. “Your uncle would have been imprisoned whether I was there or not.” Each word was a hiss of breath, low enough for it to be impossible for Blythe to hear no matter how slow or how quiet her piano playing became.

“But you were there, weren’t you?” For Byron’s benefit, Signa spat the words through a bracing smile. “I can’t believe a word that you’re telling me.”

He assumed a tired, withered expression. “I know that we are still getting to know each other, Miss Farrow, so you have little reason to believe me. But I make it a point to never lie.” Finally, his eyes skimmed up and over her shoulder. It was little more than a fleeting glance, yet it was enough for Signa to know exactly where Death lingered. The very act of envisioning him there had the pressure in her chest deflating, for she knew that no matter what happened, he would keep Blythe safe.

As quickly as Fate had sat down, he was on his feet again. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Hawthorne, I would love for Miss Farrow to accompany me for a promenade around the grounds of Thorn Grove. Do you find that agreeable?” The question was more for her benefit than Byron’s, for as the gold of Fate’s eyes glinted and the threads around him glimmered like the morning dew, Byron’s face became drawn and his eyes hollow. Though propriety called for them to be accompanied by an escort, Byron’s only response was a slow nod. Blythe remained staring down at the piano, repeatedly striking the same three chords in succession.

Signa’s spine pulled taut as a bow, and she threw a look toward where Death stood. “I can handle myself. Stay with Blythe, please.”

“You heard the lady.” Fate offered his arm, and Signa could only imagine what Death’s face must have looked like as she took it.

She was glad in that moment that she could not see Death, for she despised how deeply this would affect him. Had the situation been reversed, such a sight would have Signa wallowing in her misery, especially given her newfound abilities. Yet she hoped that he understood this was not for Fate’s benefit, for Signa cared only for two things—getting Elijah out of that cell and keeping Fate away from any other Hawthornes.

And so Signa followed Fate and the path he carved through the manor,

out the front doors of Thorn Grove, and into the fields of blooming wildflowers that stretched endlessly ahead. She had to rely on Fate’s arm for support more than she would have liked, each of her steps slow and calculated, her body far weaker than she gave it credit for.

So weak, in fact, that Fate took notice.

“You used the reaper’s powers,” he noted without inflection. “Didn’t you?”

Refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a scowl, Signa coiled her anger tightly within her belly. “There was something I needed to do.”

He hummed under his breath, his arm tensing beneath her grip. “Are the consequences worth it?”

Given everything that had happened and everything she’d learned, it was impossible to answer. On one hand, she was glad to have the information. On the other, Signa still remembered the searing of her body and that music stirring in the depths of her mind as she’d watched Blythe flee from Elijah’s study.

Taking great interest in her boots, she answered, “I’d rather not discuss that.”

Fate’s laugh was not like Death’s. It was not midnight’s seductive call that shuddered down her spine with dark promises. Rather, it was warm and crisp, like the summer dawn. “Very well,” he said, trying not to crush the wildflowers beneath his boots as he led Signa down a path she and Blythe had walked a hundred times before.

Late spring was far from Signa’s favorite time of year. There was something about the heat that made her temper flare; it sapped the energy straight from her bones, leaving her wilted and burnt and unquenchable for the rest of the day. Oppressive was the only word to describe the air around them, so thick and damp that she was already beginning to perspire beneath the many layers of her dress. The finer hairs around her face began to curl, stray wisps escaping their elegant confines every minute that Signa spent outdoors, the overgrown grass scratching her ankles.

Rather than promenade, there was a large picnic blanket spread beneath the bend of an oak tree, and Signa frowned as Fate motioned for her to sit upon it. She couldn’t look away from a slug that was sliding up the length of the blanket’s edge, searching for somewhere dark and cool to escape to. She had never related more to a slug in her life.

Never, not in a million years, could Signa envision Death seated here before her, the two of them withering in the sunlight while trying to sip tea and make merry as the heat glared down on them. She didn’t care to be a sunflower, unfurling her petals in the daylight for all to see. She would rather be an adorable little mushroom, thriving in the dark crevices where few ventured to look.

“Well?” Fate was setting out the most beautiful porcelain trays before her, taking great care to lay each one just so. “Do you like it?” There was such hopefulness in his voice that, rather than take another jab at him, Signa stilled. She looked to the slug, as though it might help her find the right words, when he set the picnic basket beside him and started to stand.

“It’s fine if you don’t,” he said hurriedly. “We can attend a ballet this evening. We could take an actual promenade, perhaps around the park—”

Signa reached out to take hold of his hand, jolting at how still he went. Never in her life had she felt such command over someone, not even Death. In that moment she felt every bit of the tension wound within Fate, ready to break free and spring from his skin. He was a desperate man, and more susceptible than Signa had expected. One day she might use that to her advantage. But in that moment she could think only of how sad it was. How sad and how broken he was.

“This is very nice,” she told Fate, guilt churning within her belly as his shoulders relaxed. She thought of Death’s pleasant chill against her skin, craving it more than ever in the unbearable heat. And yet she would rather suffer there in the heat than be seen publicly with Prince Aris.

“You always used to love the spring,” Fate whispered as he took his seat, looking pained to draw away from her, “but summer was your favorite. We would spend our days just like this, enjoying meals by the sea or exploring old cities that felt new. I’d hoped that a picnic might spark some sort of memory.”

Signa frowned, the music she’d remembered playing on a loop in her head. Perhaps it was only a fluke—nothing more than her memory of dancing with Fate back at Wisteria Gardens getting the better of her. She was more curious about him than she had any right to be, and while it was true that in his presence she felt a strange and undeniable pull, there was nothing romantic between them.

“I hate summer.” Signa didn’t mean for it to be cruel, and she hated that

those words had Fate shrinking in on himself, his frown severe. “I’m not very partial to the spring, either. I prefer the colder seasons.”

His jaw was tense, hands flexing as he gripped the basket. “Of course. My apologies.” He didn’t look at her as he doled out a platter of cold meats, then sandwiches that had been cut with the utmost precision. Even the cups he filled with fresh lemon juice and sugar syrup were both meticulously filled to the same point, not so low as to be unsatisfying but not so high that she’d spill it when she sipped. Delicate lavender petals floated atop it.

“Did you make all of this yourself?” Signa took the drink gratefully, trying to spy what else was in the basket. There were pastries, including some sort of glazed tart that looked as though it had been baked by an expert hand.

“Are you surprised?” he asked by way of answer, and the small smile he tried to hide was enough to confirm her suspicion that he had. Glancing down at her lemonade, she took a cautious sip to see whether it tasted half as good as it looked—it was even better.

Signa truly looked at Fate then, as he filled a plate for her and then for himself. Unlike Death, this man was made for the sun. He practically glowed beneath it, as though it was a part of him. He seemed comfortable in a fitted white shirt he’d loosened at the collar and trousers cut at the ankles, exposing them as he leaned back to watch her.

“They’ll be the fashion one day,” he noted when he caught her staring. “It’ll be a while until they catch on, but I’ve wanted to try them ever since I crafted the fate of a woman who thought them up.”

Signa drew the plate he’d made for her into her lap, taking a hesitant bite of a cold cut that was so rich she began to salivate.

“Dear God.” She had to look down at what she was eating just to confirm it wasn’t somehow a manifestation of her hunger. “Do you always eat like this?”

Fate’s laugh was proud and warm. “Of course. I know the finest cooks and artisans in the world, Miss Farrow. Why would you settle for average when everything upon your tongue could taste of ambrosia?”

He and Death truly could not have been more different, and Signa found herself pondering what an eternity spent with Fate’s powers would be like. Though there was a chance that every day might feel rich and exciting, she wondered if everything else seemed to dull in comparison. How

unsatisfying every day must have felt when you were always on the hunt for something more beautiful or more luxurious than the last. “What of the art in Wisteria Gardens?” she found herself asking. “How do you come to collect it?”

“Some pieces are from the most talented artists I’ve ever come across, most of them unrecognized. The majority of the art, however, is mine.” There was an ease to the way Fate spoke, a casualness in his voice and posture that Signa was uncertain what to do with. She wanted to hate Fate, truly. Yet while his methods needed vast improvement, she also understood them, for she would do anything to help Elijah. Already she had killed for Blythe. And should Death ever be in such a position… Signa shuddered to think about the lengths she’d go to save him.

She was no better than Fate, really. And while she could not give him what he wanted, she had to admit that being with him didn’t feel as bad as she’d expected.

“So you spend your days drinking the finest wine and eating the most delicious food you can find?” she teased. “It sounds exhausting.”

The barest hint of a smile cracked his lips. “It’s not so luxurious as that, I’m afraid. Mostly I work.”

“By weaving tapestries,” she specified as she plucked the slug from the blanket and tucked it into the soil at the base of the oak. She may have been doomed to burn in the sunlight, but at least the slug didn’t have to.

“By weaving tapestries,” he echoed. “Yes. Though you make it sound so simple.”

“Is it not?” She thought of her own abilities as the reaper and how natural they felt. Her powers of Life, however… As much as she was drawn to exploring them, using them had felt like tearing herself apart from the inside out. Signa clung to his words, desperate to understand. There would be some relief, she imagined, if she knew someone else who struggled with their own unusual abilities.

Fate leaned forward, and so bright was his smile that Signa’s heart stuttered. “I could show you if you’d like?”

Curiosity festered within her, yet she could only imagine the ideas Fate would get if she agreed. She had no desire to let this man continue believing there was a chance of anything between them, no matter how tempting the idea of watching him work might have been.

“You said that you wouldn’t hurt Blythe.” Signa set aside her plate and cup, both empty. “And you said that you make it a point not to lie, so will you vow that to me, then? That no matter what happens between us, you will bring her no harm? That you will not warp her mind, or turn her into one of your puppets?”

“My puppets?” He snorted, finishing off his drink before reaching into his pocket and brandishing a silver sewing needle. Without a moment’s hesitation, Fate pricked the tip of it into his finger. Upon it, a single bead of blood shone gold. “Very well. If this is what it takes to ease your mind, then I will make you the most binding promise of all. Give me your hand.”

She did, so used to pricking her own finger when she’d been testing out her abilities that she didn’t blink when he pierced the needle into her skin. The moment her blood welled up, he pressed his against it.

“For as long as I exist, I vow to never bring harm to Blythe Hawthorne.” Fate’s blood seared against her skin, and Signa gritted through the pain with a hiss.

Before he could pull away, she gripped his hand tighter. “And what of Death?” Though she knew she was pressing her luck when he tried to withdraw his hand, Signa held on. “Will you also vow not to hurt him?”

Fate stopped trying to pull away and instead allowed his eyes to meet hers as he said coolly, “He will not be extended the same courtesy.”

Signa jerked away, her blood pulsing a manic rhythm. Rationally she could understand Fate’s anger. Given who it was toward, however, she accepted none of it.

“I expect my communication with him to be restored immediately,” she demanded as Fate wiped their smeared blood onto a handkerchief he’d produced from his pocket. He was a shell of the man he’d been moments ago, scowling so deeply it looked as though someone had taken a chisel and carved it upon his face.

“You’ll be able to speak with him this evening.” Fate stood, stomping across the blanket before he grabbed the basket, the tart still inside. If only she’d waited another five minutes before picking this fight, she might have been able to try it. “Rest well, Miss Farrow. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

That, Signa was sure, she could count on.