THE PALACE GARDEN WAS THE OPPOSITE OF WISTERIA’S IN EVERY way,
understated in its beauty with elegant rosebushes and shady oaks that lined trim pathways. Servants passed by with trays of dainty sandwiches and savories, which guests ate as they gossiped together in the shade. As she and Blythe made the trek across the lawn, Signa found herself wishing that she could be one of those guests, soaking in the garden’s beauty while stuffing her face with food.
Instead, she found herself continually looking at Everett, examining the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes as he greeted others. Might he have had a motive to kill his father? Could his face be that of a killer?
Charlotte was at his side, speaking to him in low and happy tones. Signa watched them all the while, trying purposely to keep her focus from Fate. Blythe must have been doing the same, for she whistled quietly under her breath. “Perhaps it’s time to turn your attention toward being a princess, after all. They seem to be forming quite the pair.” Blythe spoke as if testing Signa’s feelings about the matter.
“And yet neither one has spoken a word about an attachment,” Signa replied, and nudged Blythe toward where Everett was bowing to more ladies and eager mothers that approached as Charlotte watched, her expression more vacant with each new face.
It felt like they were stopped every few feet as Fate led the way across a seemingly endless lawn of the most perfect grass—truly, not a single blade was browning, and all seemed cut to precisely the same length. When Fate caught Signa stealing a look at him, he offered his arm with a gloating puff of his chest. Blythe practically shoved her forward, and Signa shot her a
withering glare before she begrudgingly took Fate’s arm and allowed him to pull her ahead.
“What do you say to a game, Miss Farrow?” he asked. Though the question was teasing, it was easy to see the vulnerability he was masking.
“I would say no,” she answered honestly, “but do I have a choice?”
Fate took the jab in stride. “Would your answer change if I said we can consider it part of our courting?”
She nearly missed a step. Before so many eyes, the last thing she wanted was to be seen courted by Fate, nor did she wish to fan the flames of his interest when he refused to promise he would not harm Death. But even if she refused, she doubted Fate would leave. Not to mention that Signa would give just about anything to hear Death’s voice again.
“Give him to me for a full day.” Signa sidestepped a little closer toward Fate, trying to keep her voice low. Blythe, she was sure, was likely trying her best to listen in. “Starting now.”
Fate walked with strong, confident strides, yet somehow still managed to look elegant. Almost like he was floating, with no scuffs on his leather boots. “I will not change the terms of our agreement.”
She made certain to kick the grass a little harder with her next step, hoping to send some mud onto his boots. Somehow, it didn’t land. “Very well. But no cheating. I don’t like men who play dirty.”
He laughed. “If playing dirty is what it takes to get you to remember all that you have lost, then I will be the filthiest bastard you’ve ever met, Signa Farrow. You’ll have your time with Death after our game.”
Signa had not anticipated the warmth that flared within her. Her throat was too tight to swallow, and she dared not look Fate in the eye.
The field was empty apart from the wickets and stakes meant for the game, and whether that was because everyone else was smart enough to enjoy palace food while they could or because of Fate’s hand, Signa had to wonder. She was glad for a few seconds of reprieve when he left her side to scoop up two of the mallets, one of which he handed to her.
“What do you say, ladies? Up for a game?” There was a spark in Everett’s eyes, and after all he had undergone these past few weeks, Signa’s foul mood eased at the welcomed sight.
“I’d rather watch,” Charlotte answered with a small smile that immediately had Everett grinning back. Signa couldn’t believe her eyes—
just when had this fire between them begun? “You’ll stay nearby?” he inquired.
“Of course.” Charlotte walked a few short feet away, stopping beneath the shady bend of a tree. “I’ll be right here, rooting for both teams!”
“If that’s the case, then my team will be me and my cousin,” Signa said, not about to allow herself or Blythe to be stuck on a team with Fate.
While she expected him to be annoyed by her declaration, his amusement seemed only to grow. “Very well, though you should know that in Verena we play for prizes.”
Dread crept into Signa’s stomach. She should have known there would be a catch.
“What’s the prize?” Blythe asked as she tested the weight of her mallet. “Whatever you’d like it to be.” Fate kicked over two balls for each team.
Both of Signa’s had a stripe of purple around them to match her mallet. “For us, perhaps a song written and sung in our praise? A favor? Or maybe even a kiss from a lovely lady?”
Everett straightened a little, glancing toward Charlotte. “I don’t think that—”
“Oh, come now, Everett.” Fate laughed. “It’s only a kiss.”
The refusal was upon the tip of Signa’s tongue, and yet Blythe jumped
in.
“We can have anything?” she asked.
The trap had been sprung, and Signa wasn’t convinced that Fate could
look any more gloating than he did then. “Anything that’s in my power to give.”
Blythe didn’t pause to consider her request, though she at least had the sense to lower her voice when she said, “If we win, then the prince must put in a good word for my father.” Before either man could say anything more, she added, “And I want to see him. Immediately.”
Everett lowered his mallet, his face severe. “Miss Hawthorne, that’s not possible—”
“Consider it done.” Fate’s lack of hesitation gave Everett pause. He blinked, seeming to question in that moment just how much power a prince might have. “I accept those terms.”
Signa’s mind worked through the request, threading through his choice of words for any hidden meanings. But before she could get her thoughts
together, Blythe swung her mallet over her shoulder and started toward the field.
“Wonderful.” She batted away a blond curl that had escaped her wide- brimmed ivory hat. “You’d best prepare yourself, princeling. I’ve no intention of letting you kiss me.”
“Letting me?” Fate’s laugh was far too genuine. “You’re not to my taste, love.”
“So it seems there is a God.” Blythe clapped her hands together and looked to the sky as if praying. “It only took looking at your art for me to understand how terrible your taste is.”
Fate’s grip tightened on his mallet, and Everett and Signa shared a look. At least there were two people here behaving appropriately, though both Fate and Blythe reeked so thoroughly of determination that convincing them to play without stakes wasn’t an option, even if there was a second when Signa considered wringing Blythe’s neck.
How did one beat Fate in his own game? Couldn’t he change the outcome? Twist everything to his favor? She wanted to win as much as Blythe, yet it wasn’t until a chill tore through the air around her shoulders that Signa believed they might have a chance.
Signa gripped the handle of her mallet and tried to capture her fleeing breath. At once she turned to Fate, who had given himself away by looking directly at the spot next to Signa—where, she now realized, Death stood. Though she could neither see nor hear him, the mallet pressed harder into her palms, as if to say that he was there with her. That he would help.
“Ladies first,” Fate offered with an edge of annoyance. It was the only thing that revealed just how he felt about Death’s arrival.
Blythe positioned herself as though she’d played a thousand times before, squaring herself to the ball and striking it straight on. The ball hurtled through the first wicket, and Fate’s smile twitched downward. He stole a look at Blythe, then at Death, but as far as Signa had been able to tell, that hit was all her own.
Blythe flashed Fate a wicked grin as she strode up to the ball, earning a second turn from scoring a point. Her next strike had the ball across the field, more than halfway toward the next wicket. She inspected her work with a satisfied little nod before strolling back to them. “I suppose that will do.”
It was Everett’s turn next, and Signa felt the chill wash toward him. Fate, too, took a subtle step closer to Everett. Golden threads glistened, drawing the mallet back, but it seemed that something got hold of the ball the moment the mallet struck—Death. He at least had the decency to scoot the ball forward a few inches for Everett’s sake, though it was a crooked shot away from the first wicket that left Everett scratching his head.
“I’m usually not such a horrendous shot.” He glanced above him, as if checking whether the wind itself was his offender.
“You’ll get it next time.” Blythe’s voice was automatic, as though she’d had to tell players that too many times before. “Perhaps the prince will make up for it on his turn.”
“I intend to,” Fate bit back, glowering when Blythe never dropped her smile.
“It sounds like someone underestimated us.” She stretched her gloved hand before her, inspecting it for any sign of dirt. “I used to make my brother play with me every Sunday.”
Signa could have sworn that there was the tiniest hitch in Blythe’s voice, and that her icy blue eyes were suddenly much sharper as she shared a look with Charlotte. There was little time to think about it though, for as Blythe reminded her, “It’s your turn, Signa.”
Everything Signa knew about croquet she had learned from watching Blythe approximately two minutes prior. She approached the ball just as her cousin had, squaring herself to it and doing her best to appear as though this were second nature, and that she’d swung a mallet a thousand times before. Really, though, she was pleading with Death under her breath.
Fortunately, he seemed to know exactly what to do. She couldn’t say whether her mallet had even struck before the ball was rocketing through the next wicket. Everett whistled low behind them, but when Signa glanced back toward her cousin with a victorious grin, she was surprised to find that Blythe’s smug expression had been wiped clean, her pale brows creased.
It was possible she was overly focused. With such a prize on the line, how could she not have been? Still, Blythe looked between Signa and the ball with such skepticism that Signa’s palms began to sweat through her gloves. She gave her hands a shake before fisting the mallet for her second turn. Once again she felt the familiar breeze of Death’s shadows as he jumped into action, gliding the ball along the path and straight through the
next wicket.
“I daresay we’ve been played, Your Highness,” Everett mused, glancing back at Charlotte every so often to see whether she was enjoying herself. “Perhaps we should quit while we’re ahead.”
Fate scoffed as he stalked toward his team’s ball. “Nonsense. We have time to redeem ourselves.” The threads around him blazed an intense gold, winding around his mallet. But Death’s shadows must have intertwined with them, for the mallet was slower than it ought to have been on the swing. Even so, the ball slid through the wicket.
“I do enjoy a nice, fair game.” Fate repositioned himself for his second strike, bending at the hips. The second he did, he whispered at the ground, “I do not make a habit of cheating, brother. But if you continue to, then so will I.” Then he struck, and this time the ball was off, not quite reaching the wicket. He glared at it, lips curled as though the ball had personally offended him.
Blythe was already preparing herself as Fate made his way back to them. He stopped to watch her, while Death, it seemed, could not help himself from one last interference. As Blythe raised her mallet back, it swung from her grip and struck Fate between the legs.
Blythe careened backward, mirroring Signa as she covered her mouth with both hands. A gust of wind tore around them, hard enough to knock off the hats of a few affronted ladies in the distance. Signa glared hard at the spot where Death must have stood.
It was like watching a scene play out in slow motion as Fate stumbled, lips pressed so tight they were bone white as he dropped to his knees.
Behind them, Charlotte covered her squealing mouth.
Blythe rushed toward Fate, stopped, stepped back, then continued toward him again, as if unable to figure out whether he’d want her apology or her head on a platter. Eventually she settled on the apology. Her cheeks were red as a cherry tart.
“Your Highness! Are you all right? I’m so sorry, is there anything—”
Everett took her by the shoulder and drew her back, his expression grave. “Perhaps some space, Miss Hawthorne. You don’t need to be involved in such a delicate situation.”
Signa bit the inside of her cheek, hard. “Was that really necessary?” she hissed at Death. “He already wants to kill you!”
It was an accident, Little Bird. They really ought to put a better grip on those mallets. I didn’t expect it to hit him.
Signa’s chest felt as though it swelled three sizes when she heard Death’s voice in her head. It seemed the pain of Fate’s accident must have temporarily caused his powers to slip, and though she knew that couldn’t have been a good thing, her stomach fluttered all the same. How nice it was to hear him again, if only for a few seconds.
“Are you all right?” Blythe demanded. “Shall I see if there’s a doctor to examine you?”
“There’s no need for a doctor, Miss Hawthorne,” Fate seethed. “And I certainly do not need an examination. Just… give me a moment.”
“Sit the rest of the game out,” Everett suggested through a wince. “I’ll represent our team. Miss Farrow and Miss Hawthorne can choose a player to represent theirs.”
“Let’s not make a fuss over nothing.” Even through a wince, Fate managed to sound convincing.
Nothing? Death echoed with mirth. I wouldn’t admit that so freely, brother.
Had Signa been able to see him, Death certainly would have gotten her most insidious glare. She never knew that brothers could be so infuriating. Was he trying to bring Fate’s wrath upon them?
Fate rolled his shoulders back, ignoring Death as he eased to a stand. “There’s little harm done. I’m fit enough to play.”
Though Blythe appeared skeptical, she didn’t dare wound his pride by arguing. Neither did Everett, and soon enough they fell back into the game, feigning that nothing had happened.
The game lasted around two hours, during which Death’s voice faded away. Turn after turn both Everett and Signa tried their best—without Death’s influence—though Everett bounced several balls from the wickets, and Signa kept missing the ball altogether. Only Blythe and Fate were scoring any points for their respective teams, and the tension between them grew so thick that the other two gave them a wide berth.
Blythe was spectacular, so focused on the game that she did not so much as smile each time the ball passed through a wicket. Her gaze was cool and level, mind unwavering from the task at hand.
Fate was just as well practiced. As he ought to have been, Signa
supposed, considering how long he’d been alive. He didn’t need to rely on his magic to aid him, and remained true to his word about avoiding it even as he kept up with Blythe. Soon enough, just as Signa’s back had begun to ache and she had half a mind to lie on the fine grass, Blythe’s shot knocked Fate’s ball from its position near the last wicket, and she took the final point.
Only then did she throw her mallet down and spin toward Fate. Her eyes were gleaming with constrained satisfaction. Signa had no doubt that if they were alone, she’d be celebrating her victory with nothing short of a battle cry.
“I want to see my father tomorrow.” Blythe kept her voice even, and though Fate wore the face of a man scorned, he nodded.
“I keep my promises, Miss Hawthorne. Consider it done.”
The hours had slipped away while they’d played. It wasn’t so late that the sun had fully set, though it was late enough that guests had started to disperse and all food and drink service had ended. Though the game wasn’t particularly strenuous, the sun had been sweltering, and Everett dabbed perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief. It’d been nice to play a game with him; to see him jest and smile and pretend that they were normal people with normal lives—people not surrounded by death and disaster, if only for a few hours.
Everett turned to the cousins and Charlotte, who had rejoined them and was stealing sideways glances at Blythe. “Shall I walk you ladies to your carriage?” he asked. “It’s later than I realized.”
“I think that would be wise.” There was something wrong about Blythe’s tone. A tension that only a knowledgeable ear would pick up. Signa straightened at the sound.
It was unlike her cousin not to take her arm as they walked, nor to revel in her victory. Signa slid a look at Charlotte, though the girl swiftly turned away as she and Everett bid the cousins a farewell.
“It was a good match, Miss Hawthorne,” Fate admitted as Blythe and Signa stood beside their carriage. “Arrive to the prison before sunrise tomorrow. I’ll see what can be done.”
Blythe nodded, and while it seemed she was not trying to be harsh, she was quick to turn from Fate and throw the carriage door open.
“Let’s get going,” she demanded. And though Signa’s entire body itched
with the knowledge that something was horribly, desperately wrong, she followed her cousin inside.
