ELIZA WAS ON HER KNEES IN THE GARDEN, THROWING UP IN THE POPPIES by the

time they found her. She held her stomach, a sloshing vial of oiled herbs clutched tight in her fist.

Signa crouched beside her while Blythe seized hold of Eliza’s hand.

“Give that to me,” Blythe demanded with the chill of a wintertime storm. “Open your hand and give that to me now. How much have you taken?”

Though Eliza looked a breath away from death, she didn’t ease her grip on the vial and instead tried to obscure it from view.

“Leave me alone,” she seethed, every bit as lethal as Signa knew she could be. What Signa didn’t expect, however, was the edge of fear in Eliza’s voice as she clamped her eyes shut and curled into the dirt. “This is retribution. I’ll come back inside once I—” She cut off with a choke as she doubled over again, bile trailing down her lips.

“She’s delirious.” Blythe shifted so that she was behind Eliza, loosening the laces of her corset as Eliza cried in relief.

“She’s dying,” Signa clarified, not needing to look up to know that Death had arrived at last. The dirt was ice beneath her fingertips, and Eliza curled into herself, unable to stop her shivering. When the shadows pooled around her, Signa bared her teeth.

I will not make the same choice I did with Blythe, she told him. I will not demand the same sacrifice from you. But all the same, I will not let you have her. Not until I try everything.

Her clock is ticking, Little Bird, Death warned. There are battles even you cannot win.

Perhaps, though it would not be from a lack of effort. Signa pried off her gloves and took hold of Eliza’s hand, plucking her fingers from the glass one by one.

“I need it,” Eliza cried, fighting Signa to squeeze the vial. “You don’t understand—”

“Mugwort.” Blythe straightened from her crouch, fingers curling into the bark of the tree she braced herself against. “There’s mugwort and tansy in that thing. You can help her, can’t you?”

“Tansy?” It was a common enough herb, often used to aid with stomach pain or headaches. But Signa had to scan her brain over the mugwort, thinking through everything she’d ever heard about it. Everything she’d ever read. Its uses, its dangers…

She froze, face gaunt as she peered down to where Eliza clutched her stomach. Not around the middle, but lower, right on the swell of her belly. Blythe must have recognized the moment that Signa understood, for she leaned closer as Signa lifted Eliza’s dress over her knees and saw exactly what she’d feared—blood. Too much of it, soaking through her undergarments.

“You’re pregnant.” Signa was breathless. How had she not realized it before? The obsession with finding a husband. Her nausea… Eliza had been pregnant all this time. Though neither she nor the baby would survive if Signa didn’t act soon.

She looked to Blythe, who had already tossed her gloves aside and was pushing up her sleeves. There was no question in the look she slid Signa, only a demand—fix this.

“If you’re going to do it, then it needs to be now.” Death’s voice was no soft thing. It was every bit as powerful as he was as it cracked through the night, awakening a fervor of determination within her. “It needs to be before she dies, otherwise I cannot allow you to claim her.”

Fate’s warning from days ago echoed in her head, causing Signa to hesitate before she set her bare hands onto Eliza. She needed to heal not just one life, but two, and she hadn’t a clue where to begin.

She shut her eyes, focusing with everything in her on helping these two. On making them well and healthy. She envisioned it in her mind’s eye, just as Fate had instructed. She pictured Eliza with full and glowing cheeks, and a child who would live to see this world. Yet as she pressed her palms

against Eliza, Signa could not escape intrusive thoughts that warned her of the burn that was to come.

It was too painful. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t—

“Don’t you dare give up.” Blythe took hold of Signa’s hand and pressed it down. “Help them, Signa.”

This time as the heat crept in, Signa threw the doors open and let it consume her. She didn’t stop when it felt like fire licking up her skin. Didn’t move even when she was convinced that this magic was melting her alive, or when her eyes stung so much that she worried she’d never see again.

She let the heat consume her until she saw only an abyss of pure white. There was nothing but endless space ahead until she heard a gentle, jovial laugh. A face took shape then—Fate’s face, though more relaxed as he laughed, holding someone. Holding her, she realized.

Only, Signa wasn’t herself, but another woman entirely. One with sweeping white hair as pure as snow, who laughed as she eased onto her toes to kiss him.

Vaguely, Signa understood that she was seeing another memory, this one of a time long ago, where the woman in her mind’s eye had burned for Fate’s touch, and his kiss alone could make her heart soar. It was a time when she saw Death sitting alone, watching beneath the shade of a wisteria tree, and she felt nothing for him.

As quickly as it came, the memory slipped away as Signa fell from Eliza. She took her head in her hands, aching with a pain so consuming that she wished she would faint. Yet her mind wouldn’t allow such an escape, not after all she’d just seen. The memory was short and vague, nothing more than passing glimpses. But she could no longer claim it as coincidence. Life’s memories were real, and as Death whispered words she could not focus enough to hear, Signa curled into herself.

Despite Life’s powers and all the proof she’d had so far, she’d been clinging to the hope that Fate was wrong. That everything she’d done thus far had been a fluke, and that they’d one day find the true reincarnation of his wife and be done with this mess. Signa could ignore a song, but she couldn’t deny these memories.

“Breathe, Little Bird,” Death whispered as he bent beside her. Signa was trying her best to save face, though she nearly lost herself at those words

because this was the man she loved. This was the man she wanted to kiss, and whose presence alone put her body at ease. But Signa could feel that more memories were waiting, biding their time to surface when she least wanted them.

Eliza came to seconds later. Her clammy skin had begun to dry, and her bleeding had halted. But considering that Signa could still see Death hovering nearby, Eliza must not have been fully out of the woods yet.

Blythe hadn’t moved an inch, alert only when Eliza tried to peel her dress from her thighs, the dried blood clinging to her skin. “Careful,” Blythe whispered, her voice dazed. “You should move slowly.”

Eliza’s thin brows pinched toward her nose. She looked from the poppies to the trees surrounding her as she pried herself from the dirt. “What on earth happened?”

It seemed that Blythe could barely contain her snort. “That’s what you’re supposed to tell us.”

“You’re pregnant,” Signa added at Eliza’s apparent confusion. This time when she said it, Eliza was coherent enough to look her in the eye. Signa had to try to block Life’s memories out a little longer, instead gathering the scattered puzzle pieces of this mystery and speaking her thoughts aloud as she pieced them together.

“The night your uncle died, Everett told me that the duke was trying to marry you off—”

“To a man with one foot in the grave.” Blythe, it seemed, was creeping toward the same conclusion as Signa.

“And one who wouldn’t ask questions,” Signa noted, her teeth still chattering every few words. “The late duke knew about the pregnancy, didn’t he?”

There was no escaping the truth of the situation now, and Eliza seemed to realize as much. Her mouth opened and shut several times before defeat claimed her and she released the tension in her shoulders. “All Sir Bennet ever discussed was how much he needed an heir. Perhaps he was a good fit on paper, but can you imagine letting someone old enough to be your grandfather put his hands all over you?” She shuddered. All three of the women did.

One look at the discarded vial of herbs told Signa all she needed to know about the next piece of the puzzle, and so she pressed, “You didn’t

want to marry him. So you went to the apothecary for a solution.” Signa remembered her own visit there months prior, when the shopkeeper had suspected Percy was up to something and had offered Signa the means to take care of him. Perhaps that, too, had been cyanide.

Eliza’s answer came in words so sharp that each one was spoken like its own sentence. “I never, ever meant to cause my uncle any harm.” She made a fist in her skirts, taking a moment to still the quiver of her bottom lip. “I read about cyanide in the papers. There were cases of poisonings where the men did not die but briefly took ill. I only needed to make my uncle believe that Sir Bennet was no longer a viable option. I wanted him to find someone else, so I slipped some cyanide into a drink that a servant was meant to bring to Sir Bennet. But Mr. Hawthorne stopped him on his way and grabbed the laced drink.” For as long as she’d held in her secrets, they now flowed from Eliza’s lips like a rushing river.

“I must have checked the dose a hundred times. No one should have died that night, I swear it.” Eliza brought her knees to her chest, hugging them tight. “I never—God, I never meant for my uncle to die. I loved him.”

Blythe crumpled into herself at the confession. Signa, too, wished they could sew Eliza’s mouth shut and drag her to the constable to free Elijah before she said another word. Yet both she and Blythe held their tongues because, despite everything, there was a truth that hung between them—in Eliza’s place, either of them might have been just as desperate.

It was no wonder Eliza had gone to Fate’s ball only a week after Lord Wakefield’s death; she’d been desperate to find a husband. If Eliza had known of her pregnancy before the duke’s death, that meant she was at least several months pregnant. Signa peered down at Eliza’s stomach; she was doing a remarkable job concealing it. She wouldn’t be able to for much longer, though.

Signa picked up the vial of herbs and examined it closer. “Who gave this to you?”

Eliza stiffened at Signa’s brevity. “My lady’s maid, Sorcha. I’ve been ill since the start of my pregnancy, and it’s impossible to conceal it from the one who helps dress you. Once she found out, she started to bring me herbs to ease the pain and cramping.”

It was probably an innocent mistake, but still Signa couldn’t rule out foul play without saying, “In low amounts, these herbs are safe. But they

have another use, Eliza. Were you aware that these are popular among women with unwanted pregnancies?” They were potent and dangerous, and could bring as much harm to the mother as the baby. Still, that rarely stopped a desperate woman from using them.

Too often the world did not consider women as people but as stepping stones for men. A woman was ostracized the moment she strayed from the prescribed path, left to fend for herself in a world with too few opportunities. Signa wished there was a safer option than these herbs, but she couldn’t fault Eliza for her choice.

“I only ever took the herbs to ease the pain.” So great was Eliza’s conviction that Blythe stirred. “I knew what they could do, though, and I wanted the option. I never meant for my uncle to die, but I couldn’t marry the man he chose for me. God, I never meant for it to happen like this.”

“What did you do with the cyanide after?” Signa pressed. “Did anyone see you with it?”

“No one,” Eliza swore. “I panicked and threw it out.”

While Blythe had kept quiet, sorrow knit itself into fine lines of her forehead as she asked in a whisper, “Where does my uncle play into this? Is Byron the father?”

This earned a blush so fierce that, at any other time, Signa might have teased the woman. “Byron knows of my condition, but the father isn’t involved. He doesn’t even know I’m pregnant.”

“Don’t you think it might be a good idea to tell him?” Blythe pressed. “Perhaps he’ll be willing to help.”

“What a genius idea,” Eliza all but spat. “Do you not think I would have told him if I could? I thought he and I would be married by now, yet I’ve not been able to contact him. Byron has been helping me search, and he offered to marry me himself, should I need the option. He’s a good man.”

With lead in her belly, Signa thought of the papers in Byron’s study; of the maps with crossed-out towns and scrawled notes. Months ago, Eliza had fawned over Percy, and he’d been more than receptive to her interest.

Five months ago… That timing checked out, and as Signa turned to steal a look at Blythe, it was clear from the glossing of her eyes that she’d realized it, too.

“Percy is the father,” she whispered. “That’s why Byron offered his hand.”

It was those words that caused Eliza’s resolve to shatter as she bent at the waist and clutched Blythe’s hand, sobs racking her body. “Why doesn’t anyone know where he is? Why would he run off unless he wanted no part of me or this child?”

Signa stared down at the vial between them. She thought of Percy’s pride and propriety, and wondered what he would have thought of the situation, had he known. Would it have reminded him too much of Marjorie to bear? Or would he have married Eliza, and been awaiting the birth of his child?

Whatever the answer, she’d never learn it. Eliza would never find Percy, and he would never be this child’s father. All because of her.

“Signa.” She turned from Death as his shadows slipped behind her. “You are not the guilty party. Do not think of Percy or the life you took,” Death urged. “Look instead at the one you gave life to. Had you done nothing, he would have killed Blythe.”

There was barely a second in which Signa could have sworn that Blythe’s attention whipped toward Death. She thought she saw the girl’s eyes widen, but soon enough Blythe was bent toward Eliza, squeezing her hand.

Signa’s chest felt as though it had been struck by a hot iron. They’d been seconds away from having an alibi to save her uncle. But they couldn’t turn Eliza in; not when she was the mother of Percy’s child and the last part of him that still existed in this world. Signa couldn’t take that from the Hawthornes, too.

“You’re going to be fine.” Signa tried to imitate the familiar tone Death used to placate restless spirits, though she was doing a lousy job with her wavering voice. “If you choose to keep the child, tell Everett. He’s a good man. But if for some reason he chooses not to be, you and your child will have a home here at Foxglove should you need it. And if you choose not to have the child, then we’ll find a safer way to help you without those herbs.” Signa stood, seizing hold of Eliza’s wrist and helping the girl to her feet.

Eliza’s body was as light as a feather, and though she seemed remarkably improved, she still swayed with each step.

“We’ll make sure Everett knows not to worry about you,” Signa promised as she wiped some of the dirt away from Eliza’s brow, thinking through an inconspicuous way to get her safely into a guest suite. “Know

that you will be fine, Eliza, and so will your child. You won’t be left alone.” “Why would you protect me?” Eliza asked, more a demand than a question, with each word tense and clipped. “As much as we may pretend,

we are not friends. I’m the reason your uncle is in prison.”

It was fair to ask, though Signa had no answer to give. Had the father of this child been anyone else, would she still protect Eliza? Blythe would have probably thrown her to the wolves to save her father, and wouldn’t that have been fair, too?

“You did everything to protect yourself and your child. I can’t fault you for that.” There was no true and correct path that she could see, but this one felt the most right.

Eliza stared at her for a long moment, eventually reaching forward to clasp Signa by the hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking as though she was about to say more when a heavy thudding sounded behind them.

Signa recognized Byron’s footsteps before she saw him, his walking stick clutched tight as he looked to Eliza with such a rawness that Signa worried she’d mistaken him for someone else. He hurried through the garden, poppies crushing beneath his boots as he took hold of her shoulders. Byron was no fool; one look at the blood and mud on her gown was enough for his eyes to mist. His lips trembled, opening to try to find words when Eliza steadied her hand over the one that fisted his walking stick.

“We’re fine,” she whispered, shifting her free hand to her belly. “Both of us.”

Thank God they were near a tree, for Byron had to reach out to balance himself, threatening to crumble beneath the weight of his relief.

“They’re aware?” he asked coolly, to which Eliza nodded.

“They are. And it’s because of them that I am well, so do mind your tongue, Byron.”

Blythe and Signa shared a look, though Blythe was quick to turn away.

Already he was shrugging out of his coat to drape it around Eliza.

“I’ll fetch a maid to help clean you up,” he promised, voice low with sincerity. “No one will know anything about this.”

It seemed even a man as severe as Byron could be undone by a baby. “Find Miss Bartley,” Signa noted. “She won’t tell anyone what she’s

seen.”

He nodded, waiting until Eliza gained her footing enough to loop her

arm through his before making the short trek back to Foxglove. The fog enveloped them like a wanting maw, and any hope Signa had left faded as it swallowed their figures whole.

This was truly the end, then. Without anyone to pin the blame on, Elijah would hang.

Blythe seemed to be thinking the same thing, for she stepped forward. “My father can’t be made to take the fall.” Any trace of emotion had disappeared beneath her mask of stone. She reached into her corset and pulled out a small swath of gold fabric, which she held out to Signa with the utmost severity. “We only have one way to fix this.”

Around them, Death turned the world to ice as Blythe held her cousin’s stare.

It couldn’t be what she thought it was… and yet when Signa took the tapestry, the heat of it stung so sharply that she dropped it and clutched her hand to her chest to nurse an invisible wound. “What is that?”

Blythe drew a breath, and with her exhale she seemed to morph into someone else entirely. Someone so cold and unfeeling that when her eyes narrowed on Signa’s, Blythe almost didn’t seem human.

“This is how you fix your mess,” Blythe told her. “You’re going to marry Aris.”