BLYTHE

IF IT WAS DISCOVERED HOW BLYTHE SPENT THE MORNING OF HER father’s

sentencing, Byron would have had her locked away in the bowels of Thorn Grove for all eternity.

“I may not be a gentleman,” said William Crepsley as he opened the carriage door, “but I know a lady like you shouldn’t be here alone.”

“I’m not alone at all, Mr. Crepsley. I’ve got you here.”

Blythe wasn’t permitted to attend the morning’s trial, but she refused to spend hours holed away in her room, waiting for Byron to return with the verdict. Being alone didn’t suit her these days; she found her mind too full for comfort.

Everett had motive, yet she needed more evidence if anyone was to believe he was involved. Eliza was ill enough that she was taking something from an apothecary she’d once loudly condemned. Signa suspected Byron and had made sure Blythe knew it before she left. And Blythe was once again seeing things. There was no time to sort out any of it.

Blythe had already spent hours in the library this week, trying to identify what herbs Eliza was taking. She’d been able to make out only mugwort— usually used to alleviate cramping during a woman’s cycle—and tansy, used for many things, including relieving headaches. Blythe had tried to research more the night prior, but each time she pulled the pages closer to the candlelight to read, the flame would wink out. It took several attempts at relighting it for Blythe to understand that the snuffed candle could be no

coincidence, and to abandon everything as she fled the library.

Which led her to where she was now: in desperate need of a backup plan.

Wisteria Gardens loomed over her, massive and lovely. It looked even more elegant in the sunlight than the first time she’d seen it and seemed much more sprawling without the mass of bodies making their way inside.

Blythe hadn’t allowed herself to think too long on her plan, for fear she might talk herself out of it. When Byron headed off to the hearing, she’d washed up, changed into a pretty gown of dusty rose, and snuck out of Thorn Grove. William hadn’t given any protest. Even if he’d thought her destination strange, he didn’t voice that opinion when she pressed three silver coins into his palm. Not until now, when it seemed he was realizing just what he’d gotten himself into.

Blythe faced him and said without the slightest hint of jest, “If my uncle finds out where you’ve taken me, he’ll have you gone from Thorn Grove by morning. So let’s both play our parts and keep this adventure between you and I, yes?” William was a kind man, though kindness did her little good these days. She turned back to Wisteria without waiting for his response, ensuring that her dress and gloves were both smooth before she made her way toward the palace.

Blythe hadn’t been to enough palaces to know how they operated, but it seemed that there should at least be a valet, or someone ready to greet her. As it was, no one approached as she climbed the stairs to the ornate golden doors and knocked.

A minute passed, then another. Blythe bit back her frustration. She hadn’t spent all that time readying herself—and doing it alone, given she no longer had a lady’s maid and was too stubborn to ask anyone else for help

—nor had she paid Crepsley and forced him to risk his position just for Prince Aris not to be home.

She scowled and knocked again, harder this time, and longer. So long that she gave up on the knocker entirely and beat against the door until her knuckles ached. She was just about to pull her poor hand away when the door swung open.

Prince Aris didn’t look nearly as surprised to see her as Blythe did him. She stumbled back as his hulking figure observed her from the threshold. “May I help you?”

The answer caught in her throat, so she asked instead, “Why are you opening your own door?”

Prince Aris leaned against the frame and crossed his arms. “Is a man not allowed to answer the door of his own home?”

“No,” Blythe said hastily, then grimaced. “I mean yes, he is, of course. It’s just that you’re a prince. My father never even answers the door of Thorn Grove himself.”

“Is that so?” Again, Blythe was struck by the oddity of his eyes, such an impossible shade of gold. They were as unnerving as Signa’s. “I sent the staff back to Verena. So many people aren’t needed to care for a single man.”

“You sent all of them?” she pressed. She’d never heard anything so absurd.

When Prince Aris cocked his head, Blythe feared he would shut the door in her face. It wasn’t as though she was making pleasant conversation by continually insulting him, but nerves were getting the best of her. To her surprise, it seemed that the corners of the prince’s lips quirked. Then, as if deciding he didn’t care for it, Aris abandoned the expression.

He was every bit a prince as he assessed her—like a predator before its prey. A boot ready to squish an insect beneath it. Blythe could imagine how many people had shrunk back from those eyes; there was a second when even she felt the urge to. But she would be damned before a prince made her feel less than, and so she squared her shoulders and stared right back at him.

He ran a hand down his jaw, smoothing out the tension of his clenched teeth. “I kept a cook, the butler, and someone to care for the horses.”

Though Blythe couldn’t place why, it felt as though she’d won some miniature battle that was warring between them, and victory had her puffing her chest as Prince Aris extended a hand into Wisteria.

“Shouldn’t the butler be answering the door?”

“Have you come all this way to offend me,” he asked, “or do you intend to come inside?”

All at once, Blythe’s heart was in her throat. No matter how many scenarios she’d envisioned for today, none of them had been of Wisteria so empty, or the two of them so thoroughly alone. A single butler, a cook, and a groom she’d likely not see in a palace this large meant nothing. Anyone

who discovered her whereabouts would surely assume that Blythe’s visit could mean only one thing, though she couldn’t let that sway her. Not with the stakes being what they were.

Aris was a prince. Blythe had seen firsthand the power he held over others, and the way people clung to his every word. He had gotten her and Byron a visit with her father on no notice. If he could do that, then she could only imagine what else he could manage.

“What’s wrong, love?” Aris cast her a look from over his shoulder, eyes glittering. “Afraid I’ll ruin you?”

She wasn’t afraid. Not of him, at least. And so she clenched her fists, sent William a firm look to tell him to remain exactly where he was, and followed Prince Aris inside and to a parlor warmed by the largest hearth she’d ever seen, several times her height. He motioned for her to take a seat on a plush leather sofa and sat across from her.

A tray of tea was already on the table between them, filled with light sandwiches and pastries, and to her surprise, a second porcelain teacup.

Her skin prickled as he poured steaming tea into the cup and handed it to her. Blythe didn’t drink it immediately but made a show of adding a splash of milk. She kept her eyes on him all the while, waiting until he took the first drink before she tested a small sip.

Black tea. Simple, and without a trace of belladonna. She exhaled a relieved breath as steaming tendrils spread across her skin. It wasn’t that she expected the prince to try to poison her, but one could never be too careful with whom they trusted.

Aris cast her the most peculiar look before he leaned back on the couch and folded one leg over the other. The smallest sliver of his ankle was visible, and Blythe did her best not to pay it any attention. It was strange how scandalous such a small slice of skin could seem when it was just the two of them.

The tea was warm in her hands, and she used the heat of it to reel herself in as she straightened and began, “I apologize for an unprompted visit. I was hoping that I might speak to you about—”

“About your father.” Blythe flinched as Prince Aris tapped his spoon along the side of the cup, the clanging too loud for such a quiet space. “I’m no fool, Miss Hawthorne. It can be no coincidence that you’ve decided to pay me a visit the day of his sentence.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line and set her cup on its saucer. “I know you never had the opportunity to meet my father, but I believe you’d quite like him. He’s had a rough year, but I assure you he’s innocent. He just needs an advocate.”

“You assure me, do you?” Prince Aris spoke with such amusement that Blythe had to dig a nail into her palm to remind herself not to react. “No offense, Miss Hawthorne, but I hardly know either of you. Even if your father is the wonderful man you claim, I’m sure you can see what inserting myself into this situation could do to my reputation should your assurances prove false.”

She’d expected this was coming. What reason would a prince have to assist two strangers? It was a fool’s errand to come to Wisteria, but she’d had to try.

She had seen Aris take only a sip or two, and yet he’d already poured more tea and stirred in another sugar cube. Blythe’s world was crumbling around her, fraying and burning at the edges, and he was taking his tea without a care in the world.

“Reconsider,” she said, not a question but a plea. “I know he means nothing to you, Your Highness, but he means everything to me. I beg you to reconsider.”

The veins in his forearm pulsed as he took another sip from a teacup that was laughably small in his hands, looking this time as though he didn’t care for its flavor. He opened his mouth to respond. To tell her no, surely. But Blythe didn’t give him the chance. She stood, damning all embarrassment or propriety, and put everything she had on the line.

“You came here looking for a wife.” She didn’t dare allow her voice to break, even with the emotion churning within her. There’d be time for it later, once she was alone in her room and all her options had been explored. “In return for helping my father, take me.”

It was as though the hearth itself stilled as the palace grew quiet, its crackling silenced for the single breath it took for Prince Aris to throw his head back and laugh. It wasn’t a cruel sound so much as surprised, but Blythe could feel the heat of shame spreading through her all the same.

“I’m perfectly eligible,” she defended. “My family has money and status, and I know how to maintain a household. I’m certain I could learn to maintain a palace as well. I’m not the best with stitching, I admit, but I can

play the pianoforte and the harp, and I’m not at all bad with a paintbrush. I’m also great company for outings and can be immensely more charming than I’ve afforded you the luxury of experiencing.”

Prince Aris let her speak until she was blue in the face, all but needing to gasp for air as she continued listing her merits. He propped his chin in his hand, making no motion for her to stop.

“I’m one of the season’s most eligible. You can read about it in the papers. All you have to do is help clear my father’s name,” she said once she’d exhausted every good quality she could think of. Most of them, admittedly, were an overplay of the truth. While Marjorie had taught her the ins and outs of being a woman suitable to her status, Blythe had always believed she’d make a piss-poor wife. Not that he needed to know that.

“You do sound most impressive.” The prince cleared his throat, and his amusement along with it. “Perhaps all that was true when those papers were written, but after the Lord Wakefield scandal, your eligibility is doubtful to say the least.” His eyes trailed over her from head to toe, not so much leering as assessing. Yet when he spoke again, his voice sounded almost like a purr. “As flattered as I am, love, I cannot marry you. Though I might be willing to help you, for a price.”

Blythe’s blood ran cold, and she was unable to hide the sheer desperation stirring within her as she said, “Name it.”

And so he did. “I cannot marry you, but I could marry your cousin.” Dread sank its claws into her. “Signa isn’t an option.”

“I understand you care for her—”

“You’re wrong.” Blythe hadn’t intended for the words to be so harsh, yet she did not shy away from them. “I do not care one bit for Signa Farrow.”

Aris leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. “You two were thick as thieves the last time I saw you together.”

Blythe knew she shouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Knew that if she tried to tell anyone the truth, they’d never believe her. She wanted to keep it tucked deep within her until she had sorted through her own feelings and knew what to do with them. She had every intention of doing just that and tried to tear her gaze from Aris. Yet her neck ached the moment she glanced away, her movements slow and stiff.

She set a hand against her neck, massaging it, but the stiffness refused to leave until she looked back at him. It was as though her gaze was being

pinned forward. As though something demanded that her attention stay with the prince.

“What changed, Miss Hawthorne?” His words echoed, as though the two of them sat a great distance apart. Her eyes locked to his, mesmerized by the depth of their gold. She blinked, and the entire room filled with the color, casting Aris in a hazy glow.

“You’d never believe me if I told you.” Blythe spoke without any sense of her lips moving. She couldn’t control herself, unable to look away as Aris whispered, “You’ve no idea the impossibilities I believe.”

She couldn’t say no. Blythe sat rigid in her seat, mind numbed and with only a vague understanding that this conversation was happening. She was coherent. She was there. But she had no control over herself as the words were coaxed from her. “I watched her kill a foal… and then I watched as she brought it back to life. She did the same thing to my brother, though he was left for dead.”

Only then did Blythe reclaim herself, the fog dissipating from her mind. She was sweating profusely and grabbed a handkerchief from the table. Slowly, carefully, she allowed herself to glance up to see that the fox kit they’d rescued earlier that week had jumped onto the chair beside Aris, and that the man’s hand had stilled upon it. He didn’t seem to be breathing.

She must have been feverish. That was the only way to explain the strange mistiness over her thoughts, or why she’d been foolish enough to let even a word slip, let alone the entire truth about Signa. Her hands clasped in her lap, a leg bouncing beneath her skirts as her mind worked to unravel what to do next. What to say.

“You’re certain you saw her do that?” Never had she heard Aris speak as quietly as he did then, nor seen his eyes so gentle.

“I was only joking,” she tried, hoping her voice sounded even half as amused as she tried to make it. “It was nothing as serious as that, it was just time for her to leave—”

His entire body had gone rigid, and Blythe realized with a rush of terror that he knew the truth. She tried to make herself smaller beneath the weight of a stare that frightened her to her core. Around Aris the golden haze flickered once more, gone one moment only to reappear when she blinked.

“You believe me.” Blythe whispered those words aloud several times before she could convince herself of that reality. “You believe me…

because you’re like her, aren’t you?”

God, what a fool she’d been not to see it sooner. While Signa had been trailed by shadows and darkness, Aris radiated light. He wasn’t surprised because he’d expected this. Blythe would never have offered up all her truths to him on her own accord. He’d drawn the words from her. Forced her to speak them into existence.

“Touch me, and I will kill you.” It was a weak threat, given that she had not a single weapon on her, but Blythe poured as much belief into those words as she could. She’d take the pins from her hair and stab them into his throat if she had to. “What did you do to me?”

Aris started to lean even closer, only for Blythe to kick his knee, startling the fox awake. Aris hissed a breath, doubling over while Blythe leaped from her chair and circled behind it, plotting her next ten steps.

“Stay where you are.” She assessed their shared space for anything she could use against him. A poker from the hearth. The shard of a broken teacup she could smash against his skull. “What is Signa, and what are you? And you’d better explain to me why in the bloody hell you’re glowing.”

“You can see that?” Aris sounded surprised enough that Blythe tensed, wondering if he was plotting something. “It’s not a glow. They’re threads, Miss Hawthorne. Look closer.”

She didn’t want to take her eyes from his again, every part of her tensed and ready to spring should he try anything. But Aris, to his credit, kept remarkably still. It took at least a full minute before Blythe listened, turning her attention back to the glow and staring. Blinking. Staring again. Her vision swam if she looked at any one spot around him for long, yet she held her eyes open until they were dry, just barely able to see one of the threads, then two, before everything became hazy again.

“Three times you have knocked upon Death’s door.” The coolness of his whisper sent a long chill feathering down Blythe’s spine. “Three times you have defied your fate. It would seem that each of those three times was not without lasting effect.”

“I don’t care for riddles.” She decided that the moment he looked away, she would snag the poker. “Answer my question. Who are you?”

The way Aris watched her would have someone thinking he’d never seen a woman before. He scrutinized her face. Her hair. The way she shielded herself behind the chair, creating a barrier between them. It was as

if he were seeing her for the first time.

“I am not a who so much as I am a what,” he admitted, and already Blythe was cringing, unable to believe she’d allowed this man’s lips to ever touch hers. “If I had to guess, it seems that after you died all those times, you earned the ability to catch glimpses behind the veil.”

“More riddles.” She no longer bothered to wait for him to turn away and made a grab for the poker. She held it into the flames, heating the metal without ever breaking eye contact. “What veil? And what are you, then?”

There was a grandness in the way he watched her, like a lord assessing his people. The look crawled over her skin, and in that moment Aris felt so much larger and more severe.

“The veil is what separates the world of the living from everything beyond.”

His clipped response was not what Blythe had been expecting. Her stomach clenched, mind working to find words. “What do you mean by beyond? Do you mean to tell me that I’m seeing the dead?”

“Not at all. I mean that you’re seeing things that living people cannot.” Blythe had every urge to kick him again for his nonsense, though this time she managed to refrain. “If you could see the dead, you’d already know. Your cousin is followed by shadows because she is a reaper. When she wills it, her touch is lethal.”

Blythe had already known this much from seeing Signa’s power in action. It was the fact that Aris was the one answering that sent Blythe’s heart spiraling, quickening her breath and making panic rise in her throat.

“Sometimes I see more than shadows beside Signa. I used to see her speak to them, and thought I was ridiculous and imagining things. But there’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone I can’t see.”

Aris’s jaw tightened as the fox shifted out of his lap and moved instead to nestle beside him. “There is. But are you certain you want to know who it is?”

She had her suspicions, and though she wasn’t certain that she wanted to hear the words aloud, Blythe forced herself to nod all the same.

“It’s Death himself that you’ve seen,” Aris said, his jaw flexing when Blythe stopped breathing.

Signa had spoken to that figure so tenderly. So lovingly.

“They’re together, aren’t they?” So light-headed was she that Blythe had

to brace herself. “Is he why she’s like this? Is he why she killed my brother?”

Aris stood so quickly that Blythe barely had time to brandish the poker, its white-hot tip a mere inch from his throat. He glared down at her, as still as marble.

“With Death, your cousin is a reaper. With him, she will take the very lives she was meant to create. But with me, she could be so much more. That’s why I’m trying to save her, Miss Hawthorne.” Aris held his hands up, placating Blythe when she drew back. “All we have to do is convince her of that truth.”

“Can you do the same things she can?” Her voice was tight, and it took a great amount of will not to have it squeak. “Is that why you want to marry her?”

“It’s the powers that gave life to the foal that I prefer. But no, I cannot do the same things she can. I can control fate. From the moment a person is born, I weave their fate onto a tapestry. I can alter them, too.”

Signa must have known the truth. It’s why she’d tried to keep Blythe from Wisteria and why she’d had such a severe reaction to Blythe being near Aris. Signa had known, and she’d never told her.

“So you are the one responsible for what happened to my father?” The question fractured in her throat, and Aris frowned at such a pathetic sound.

“That’s like asking if I’m responsible for every time the earth quakes or a person catches a cold. Perhaps to some degree I am, but I didn’t force this to happen, and I’ve no vendetta against you or your family. I do not meddle in the affairs of humans when I can avoid it.”

“But you know what will happen to him. Don’t you?” Never had she looked at someone so closely, as if trying to read his very soul for confirmation of her suspicions. Though he gave no answer, the pity in his eyes told her enough.

Blythe let the poker drop to the floor. She wound her arms around her stomach, fighting to hold herself in while the truth shattered around her.

“You’re going to need my help, Miss Hawthorne.” Blythe hated how desperately she clung to each of Aris’s words, and she knew in that moment that should Aris ask for the sun, she would find a way to give it to him. For her father, Blythe would give everything.

“Today, your father will be sentenced to hang. He’ll have two weeks to

live before they come for him—two weeks for you to get me Miss Farrow’s hand. If you do, I promise that Elijah Hawthorne will be spared.” As if from thin air, Aris produced a small piece of what appeared to be a golden tapestry, which he handed to her. It was warm to the touch, and so uncomfortably strange—almost alive—that she had to fight the urge to drop it. The longer she stared at it, the brighter the threads became, a halo of gold surrounding them when she squinted.

“What is this?” She stroked her thumb across the threads, tensing when she noticed that Aris shuddered. He reached forward to touch her gloved hand, stilling it around the tapestry.

“The deal will be made when Miss Farrow places a drop of her blood upon those threads. It will bind her as my wife, though the offer must be made willingly.”

Blythe wanted so badly to hate Signa for what she’d done to her family, and yet… maybe none of this was Signa’s fault. Maybe she’d had no choice in taking Percy, and Death was to blame.

Blythe had lost a brother, but she would not lose her father. And perhaps… perhaps she did not have to lose her cousin, either.

Tucking the tapestry against her chest, Blythe took her first easy breath in months. And with her exhale she made a bargain with Fate.