SIGNA SLIPPED AWAY LATE THAT AFTERNOON.
Marjorie had been so tense that, after missing countless keys on the piano, she’d ended the dance lesson early. Elijah hadn’t stayed for its entirety; he’d disappeared without a word halfway through one of the dances, with Warwick following behind him. It must have been difficult, Signa thought, to serve someone as volatile as Elijah.
Though she tried to speak with Percy after the lesson, he’d grabbed his gloves from the desk and his top hat from the rack, then disappeared out the door without once stopping to acknowledge her. Signa couldn’t blame him, not really. She’d been an infant when she’d lost her parents, and she hadn’t a single memory of them to miss. Percy was grown and full of memories when he’d lost his. And the worst part of it all was that one of his parents was still alive.
Signa didn’t pry or chase after him but gave Percy his space as she took the stairs, dragging her exhausted legs to the second story and down the dreary hall. Past the gilt- framed portrait of the redheaded man with his whippet and the one of a beaming Lillian that hung across from Blythe’s room. When Signa poked her head in, Blythe arched a fine blond brow but said nothing. She’d grown used to Signa’s frequent visits in the past weeks.
“Evening,” Signa said, keeping herself stoic so as to not
reveal her worries over Blythe’s brittle frame. Her cousin shouldn’t still have been ingesting poison—she should have been getting better. And yet Blythe looked like a dried maple leaf, ready to crumble in the first gust of wind.
Blythe’s dinner of roasted chicken and buttered potatoes was on the table beside her bed. Though she wasn’t able to inspect all of Blythe’s meals, Signa checked as many as she could. She bit into the chicken with great care, then the potatoes, and sighed with relief. There was no belladonna in the food, nor was there any in the oolong.
“What happens if the food is poisoned?” Blythe asked with a frown. “Won’t you become just as sick as I am?”
“Not quite.” Signa set down the tea and handed the plate to Blythe. “I recognize the taste. I’ll spit it out before it can affect me.”
Blythe leaned back, placated by the answer. Signa, however, was anything but as she observed her cousin, so thin and frail. Now that Blythe knew to be cautious, Signa had hoped the girl would recover quickly. So used was Signa to her own fast recovery that she had no concept of how long or painful a process recovery was for others. Perhaps it was normal for improvement to come at a snail’s pace.
“I heard music.” Blythe dipped her head back against the pillows. Her lips were as white as her skin—worse than ever. “Is there another party?”
Signa took a seat upon the bed’s edge and grasped Blythe’s hand. The girl made no protest as Signa curled her fingers around hers, feeling for the pulse in her wrist.
Slow. It was so, so slow.
“I was learning to dance,” Signa offered, keeping her face free of worry. If Blythe was to get better, then she needed to believe she could. “I’m hoping to debut soon if I can convince Miss Hargreaves that I’m ready. You’ll be joining in the season as well, won’t you?” It was a shiny bobble she dangled at the end of a rod, hoping to give
Blythe something to look forward to.
There wasn’t so much as a glimmer in her cousin’s eyes. “I was meant to debut this year,” Blythe admitted. “I’ve spent years delaying it, but the moment I turned nineteen, Marjorie was insistent. No longer having to participate in the season is perhaps the one silver lining of my illness.”
Signa balked at her cousin’s words. “You don’t wish to join society?” She’d never heard such a statement. Never thought that anyone might want anything different. To debut was expected—it was what the etiquette books instructed, and what society trained young women for.
Blythe leaned forward at Signa’s bewilderment. “Do tell me you’ve considered what it will mean to take a husband.” She took Signa by the wrist, her brows drawing together. “You hold your family’s fortune, Signa. But should you marry, it will no longer be yours alone. You’ll be giving everything—your wealth, your wants, your power—to a man who will hold more influence and respect than you as a woman will ever be able to garner for yourself in this world.” Blythe’s lips were thin, hard lines. Her grip slackened after a moment, and though her energy was depleted enough that she had to lean against her pillows, there was a hardness in her stare.
Signa hadn’t been so naive as to dismiss such thoughts,
yet they’d never seemed as important as Blythe made them sound. What use did she have for money when she was spending her days alone? Thus far in her life, what benefits had she gotten from her family’s fortune? What reason did she have to hoard it?
“I will not marry,” Blythe announced eventually, her voice a touch weaker. “I’ve enough money and status to do whatever I wish without sharing myself with a man.” Her chin was knife sharp, and although Signa had never heard such a claim before, she believed her cousin.
Drawing her legs beneath her, Signa settled into the bed and asked, “What will you do then, with all your time?”
“Whatever I wish.” A light sparked in Blythe’s glossy eyes. “I will paint, and travel, and wander the halls at night so that I may sleep until the afternoon should I desire. I will have a hound, or three, and I’ll spend my mornings riding horseback with no one to care for but myself. There are no limits to what I might do, for I will be wholly in charge.”
Signa supposed it would be grand to do whatever one wished, without any responsibilities. It was a marvelous freedom, and yet she wondered…“And you’ll do all these things alone?” The idea made her wilt a little.
Blythe looked affronted. “Of course not. I do have friends, you know. I’ll visit them when I get bored, and Percy, and… you, I suppose.” The last few words were spoken softly, as though they’d surprised even her. She looked away before she could see that Signa leaned back, struck by the weight of those words.
Since the day Signa had unknowingly saved her cousin, she’d been able to feel the bond that tethered them. Every day it grew beyond those confines, into something more tangible. A fragile flame that Signa wanted nothing more than to nurse. To protect and stoke, to warm herself as she watched it burn.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Signa whispered, still clutching her cousin’s hand in her lap. “Though I must admit that I met some friends of yours—and to be frank, the idea that you’d seek some of them out for company is astounding.”
It was in that moment Signa heard Blythe’s laugh for the first time. It was warm and rich, so unlike the cold and severe self she portrayed. The toll of wedding bells, or the very first trill of a piano. Blythe was difficult to look away from, beautiful and fascinating, someone who’d likely draw every eye in a room. Signa wondered what her cousin was like before the illness; what she had been like when her family was whole and she was healthy. If that laugh was any indicator, Signa very much wanted to meet that girl someday.
“Few are true friends,” Blythe said with mirth. “Most are unfortunate acquaintances.”
“What about Eliza and Diana? Are you not close with them?”
“When I fancy some gossip, they’re the first ones I seek. We’re not close, though. That’s the thing about society, cousin—there are vultures who will wait for the moment you stumble. And when you do, they’ll sooner pick the skin from your bones to serve themselves rather than help you back to your feet. It’s too easy to become prey.”
Signa averted her attention, focusing on her lap and on the deep lines on the palm of Blythe’s hand. She’d heard there were people who could tell your fortune from those lines, and she wondered what they might see in Blythe’s. Could a life like the one she spoke of—free but alone—truly be so fulfilling?
“What of Miss Killinger?” Signa asked eventually. “I knew her once, you know. Long ago, she and I were close friends. Is she a vulture, too?”
Blythe’s smile was small but bright. “Charlotte is wonderful. She’s the only one who’s bothered to visit me since I’ve been ill, and when my mother passed. We’ve been close for years, ever since she and her father took residence on some land across the woods so that she would have a better opportunity to find a husband. She’s kind and smart, and a fantastic cook. She makes all sorts of jams and marmalades and syrups from things she grows in her garden, and she brings them to us as gifts a few times each year.”
That kindness did indeed sound like the Charlotte she knew, and Signa was glad of it. Glad that if society truly was more like what Blythe warned of than what she’d envisioned all this time, there was still some good to be found within it.
Signa hadn’t realized she’d been silent for some time until Blythe patted her on the thigh. “What about you,
cousin?” she asked. “I did not mean to steal your excitement. Tell me, is there someone you’ve got your eyes on?”
Signa clawed at her memory for the name of the eligible bachelor Eliza had given her during their tea. “It seems Lord Wakefield is a popular choice.”
The reply earned pursed lips from Blythe. “He’s handsome enough, I suppose. Honorable and titled, which makes him a fine match. Though I never would have guessed he’d be your type. He’s very… proper.”
“You think I can’t be proper?” Signa laughed, letting herself imagine for a moment what Lord Wakefield might be like. He’d have broad shoulders, she thought, and would look quite dignified. But the more she fleshed out an image of him in her mind, the more the image began to shift, until she saw smoky eyes and a man as tall as a willow. Until she saw Sylas. Her thoughts strayed to the feeling of her body against his when they’d been hiding in the closet at Grey’s. Yet the more she thought of that, the more she thought of her past night spent hand in hand with Death—and of how natural it had seemed. She remembered the thrill that seared her veins when they’d touched, and the curiosity that kept her thoughts wandering back to him.
So thoroughly did these men fill her thoughts that Signa
moved to the open window to cool the heat upon her skin. What was wrong with her? It was Lord Wakefield she should have been thinking about. For if a gentleman like him was to call upon her, Signa could guarantee her place in society, and a life full of good company and grand, joyous balls. Yes, that was what she should think about, indeed— security. Not late-night trysts with Sylas or midnight romps with Death. She needed to get a hold on herself.
Signa chose to focus instead on what she needed—to pry at the dam of the Hawthornes and see what information she might be able to break free from it. To learn something that could help save Blythe.
“It’s Percy that the ladies are truly after. He was helping me learn to dance today when your father walked in. Forgive me if this is not my place, but I’ve been here for a few weeks now, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that the two do not get along.”
Blythe curled her fingers in the sheets, and Signa held her breath, wondering if she’d already pushed too far. She remembered how it’d felt to have Eliza and Diana prying at her, scavenging for gossip they could take and spread to whoever might listen. Blythe would be a fool to believe that Signa—a girl she hardly knew—wouldn’t do the same. But Signa had no mind for gossip. She wanted only to save Blythe, and for the puzzle pieces in her head to begin their assembly.
Blythe, it seemed, recognized this. “For twenty years, my father and uncle raised Percy to take over the family business,” she began. “When my mother died, my father became a different person. He forbade Percy from ever working at Grey’s again. My father no longer spends his days there but instead holes up in his study, as though he’s trying to let the business rot. Should Grey’s burn down, I don’t think he’d so much as bat an eye. It’s more than our livelihood—it’s how our family maintains its status. And as for my brother, it’s always been his future.”
The bags under Blythe’s shut eyes were like two purple bruises as the conversation took its toll on her. She had to force the next words out, speaking softly. “My father won’t tell us why he’s taken the business away from Percy, but I think it’s clear that my mother’s death has rotted his mind. He’s no longer thinking logically.”
If Blythe was saying that her father didn’t take the business away until after Lillian’s death, that didn’t at all match up with what Signa had found in the letter at Grey’s. There was a piece to the puzzle that she was missing. She wanted to pry, but Blythe’s chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The girl had dozed off, and Signa had no
choice but to hold her questions. She adjusted the blankets around Blythe, protecting her cousin from the cold that bit the air and sank into her bones. A cold, she realized too late, that was entirely unnatural.
Signa spun around to see that Death was behind her, his shadows stretching to cover her mouth before she could make a noise. The touch stole her breath and stilled her heart, putting her into that strange zone between the land of the living and the dead. It lasted mere seconds before he pulled away, and her body ached as her heart started up once more.
Shhhh… he whispered inside her mind. You’ll wake her.
Signa wished to bite, to sink her fangs into Death and let the poison spread. But for the sake of letting Blythe rest, she jerked her hand toward Blythe’s sitting room and motioned for him to follow. Her footsteps were slow, careful to avoid any creaking planks. “Leave now,” she said the moment they were past the threshold. “God help you, I will not let you have her.”
Relax, Little Bird, Death said smoothly. I’m not here for
her. Though I fear it won’t be long until I do come to claim that poor girl’s soul. I came to warn you. Should that girl not rid the poison from her body, I’ll be back for her before the week’s end. And her death won’t be a kind one.
Signa had half a mind to slam her fists into his chest and demand that Death leave Blythe alone forever. But Death didn’t lord over her or threaten her with the chill of his shadows. The air didn’t pull from her lungs with his nearness. It almost seemed like… like Death was trying to help her.
Signa stared deep into those fathomless shadows, leaning forward in an attempt to find a face. To find the eyes he must have had. But she saw nothing. “Why are you helping me?” she asked, hugging her arms tight around herself. “Isn’t this your job, to reap the dead from this earth?”
I understand I’ve not been kind to you. Death hesitated, shadows shifting around his feet. Because of me, your life has been harder than I ever meant for it to be. I didn’t think of your future, Signa. I did not think of anything beyond how you were being treated in the moment by those who were meant to take care of you. And for that I am… sorry. The last word sounded strange upon his tongue, as though he didn’t care for the taste of it.
I cannot spare her forever, but if we can help her, then she may not have to die so soon. There’s nothing I can do to prove myself to you. But if my word counts for anything, then you must trust me.
“We?” She’d never thought that this man—that Death incarnate—could ever seem so unsure.
“I’ll be searching, too, and I’ll let you know if I find anything to help her.” Death spoke aloud now, in a watery voice that sent shivers up Signa’s spine. She’d forgotten how much she liked that sound.
“Thorn Grove has a library,” she said suddenly, pulling her thoughts from the space they too often liked to venture when he was nearby. “Perhaps I can find something there about an antidote.”
He nodded. “See what you can find there tonight. And in the meantime, I’ll do some sleuthing of my own.”
“Thank you,” Signa whispered, shivering as his shadows fell still and the air around them plummeted at least twenty degrees. “For your help, and for telling me.”
“You’re welcome.” Again, the words sounded strange, like he struggled to even form them. “Our lessons will continue once you find something to expel that poison.”
She nodded as Death disappeared into the shadows that stretched to claim him. Only when she was certain that he was gone did Signa peer around the door back at Blythe, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. Then she clutched her own, her heartbeat like a caged beast. She checked her cheeks, too, placing a palm upon each of them
only to discover that both were hot to the touch.
All this, over Death. Over someone she’d spent her life hating.
What in God’s name was wrong with her?
