SIGNA FOUND BLYTHE SLUMPED IN THE CARRIAGE, LOOKING LIKE she’d been

to hell and back—they both did.

“Where were you?” Signa demanded as she slammed the carriage door shut, much to the surprise of the driver, who had leaned forward to do the same thing.

Blythe blinked. Once, and then again. “I… dancing, I think? It was so warm that I must have come out here for air.” She took her time with each word, piecing them together like a puzzle.

She didn’t remember. Of course she didn’t remember.

Signa’s head fell back against the seat as she tried to decide whether to be angry or relieved. Eventually she huffed, “It felt like we were dancing in the devil’s armpit,” hoping to placate Blythe’s unease. “Byron is already in the carriage behind us. Everyone’s leaving.”

“So early?” Blythe frowned, mental wheels still turning. She glanced out the window to a sky as black as pitch. “Where on earth has the time gone?”

Only when the driver snapped the reins and the horses began their descent down the mountain did Signa allow herself a proper breath. Blythe, however, fretted at her fingernails, absently picking at the cuticles.

While they’d both taken great care with their appearance that morning, Blythe’s pale blond hair looked as though she’d been hunted through the woods. A halo of stray baby hairs were strewn around her face at every angle, and her fair cheeks were deeply flushed. For her part, Signa could feel that every square inch of her skin was sticky, and she imagined any powders or rouge she’d bothered with that morning had probably all but melted away.

“Did you learn anything?” Blythe asked as she tipped her head against the window. Signa pressed against the window, too, trying to catch one last look at the fountain in the courtyard. The sculpture of a woman who looked so unlike herself that Signa scratched at her arms and tried to dispel the possibility from her mind.

It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.

“Only more rumors,” Signa answered. “Charlotte was there. Eliza, too.” “Not even in her mourning wear,” Blythe noted. “Odd, don’t you think?

She couldn’t keep her eyes off Aris, even while she danced with Lord Bainbridge all evening.”

Signa’s blood froze. “Aris? Don’t you mean the prince?”

“Must I be formal around you, too, cousin?” Blythe admonished. Signa had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making a retort. Blythe was clever; if she thought Signa was withholding information, she’d sniff out the truth like a bloodhound. It was a relief when Blythe continued, with only a slight edge in her voice, “I’m surprised Eliza came at all. If she keeps it up, it won’t be long before the vultures descend on her.”

Though Signa was no fan of Eliza—the young woman had always been the worst of the gossips, and perhaps the most judgmental of any of the ladies Signa had met thus far—she understood better than most that grief could make a person do unfathomable things.

“I assure you it’s the season that’s changing her behavior, not her grief,” Blythe added, as though she could read Signa’s thoughts plainly upon her face. “The moment she heard that a prince was entering the fray, she turned as eager as a mama. Did you see her neckline?”

“Have you seen mine?” Signa motioned toward the bodice of her dress, and Blythe reached forward to grip Signa by the knee.

“Precisely my point! Your atrocious behavior aside, we came here with every intention of seducing a prince, and so did she. Or that viscount, at the very least. It seems a strange thing to be focused on with her uncle’s death, doesn’t it? He was the closest thing to a father that Eliza had.”

It was a little peculiar, just as it was peculiar that she’d spent so much time near Byron whenever she wasn’t dancing. Still, even before Lord Wakefield’s death, Signa had witnessed Eliza’s change in demeanor the moment she’d debuted into society. She’d wanted a match her first year out, which wasn’t something Signa could hold against her. After all, hadn’t

Signa hoped that for herself once, too?

“It’s worth keeping an eye on her,” Signa agreed. “Though I don’t see what motive she would have to kill the duke.”

Blythe sighed and slipped on her gloves. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t have one. She did rather enjoy parading through town on his arm. He always bought her the prettiest dresses.”

Perhaps there was a motive to find, though it seemed like a stretch. Every suspect seemed like a stretch. Finding the killer felt like little more than a wild-goose chase, and while Byron was at the top of her list, the pieces weren’t fitting together. She wanted to tell Blythe what she’d noticed between him and Eliza Wakefield, but Blythe had been through enough when it came to her family; Signa didn’t want her to feel betrayed by her uncle, too.

The road beneath their carriage had smoothed as they journeyed down the mountainside. When the conversation lulled, Blythe rested her head against the window and shut her eyes. After a few moments she was breathing deeply. Signa leaned back, sprawling her legs beneath the dress and then frowning, for the action reminded her of when she’d first started speaking to Death—to Sylas. The two of them had been in a train car when he’d spread his obscenely long legs, as rude as could be.

God, how she wished he could be with her now.

Gazing out the window, she caught glimpses of a beautiful blue moon through towering alder trees. Staring at it brought back memories of autumn. Of riding horseback beneath the stars with Sylas by her side. The breeze had nipped at her skin, and she could still recall the wry grin on his face as he’d tipped his head back to the sky and howled with Gundry.

She hadn’t wanted him to know about her escapades at Wisteria Gardens, especially considering he’d begged her not to go. But she missed him, and there was no saying how long Fate’s agreement would last. Signa didn’t want to wait until she was back at Thorn Grove before she spoke with Death; like Blythe, she tipped her own head against the carriage window and shut her eyes.

Do you intend to tell me the rest of the story about your brother? she asked. Or shall I sit and ponder the ending for all of eternity?

Signa waited, stilling her foot when she noticed its nervous tapping. Perhaps this was all for nothing. Perhaps Death still wouldn’t be able to

hear her, and this was little more than Fate’s cruel joke. It seemed an eternity had passed before Signa’s eyes prickled with tears as she felt his attention home in on her. She hadn’t always been able to tell when Death was there listening, but ever since shared thoughts had become their most frequent form of communication, Signa had learned to sense his small subtleties—a quiet hum in her body. A prickling of her senses, suddenly more attuned to his.

Oh, Little Bird, how I’ve missed you. Though he may not have been with her in person, Death’s voice was a balm that soothed Signa all the same. She was glad Blythe was asleep, for there was no masking her grin. She swiped at her eyes, savoring the moment.

Fate was a fool if he thought that she would ever leave Death. She loved him like the winter, resolute and all-consuming. Loved him with summer’s steadiness, and with the ferocity of nature itself.

I’ve missed you, too, she told him while she still had the chance. And there are a million other things I’d rather talk to you about, but I don’t know how long we have.

She heard Death’s sigh as though he were beside her and willed herself to pretend that he was. That if she only reached out, the icy chill of his body would creep into hers. I take it you’ve spoken with my brother?

I need you to tell me who Life is, Signa said by way of an answer, hoping to bypass any argument they had no time for. I need you to tell me everything.

For a long moment there was only silence. Signa hesitated, wondering if Fate’s side of the agreement had already hit its time limit. But when she focused, she could feel Death still lurking in the corners of her mind, biding his time before he answered, Fate was all I had for many ages. Our relationship was not perfect—he has always felt that I should interfere with the human world less, while I have always suggested that he interfere more. That he listen to the requests of the souls whose lives he weaves, and take them into account. But Fate believes himself to be the perfect artist. Once a story is woven, he moves on to the next and doesn’t look back. We didn’t always agree on each other’s methods, but at the end of the day we were all each other had. Until, one day, we weren’t. It was here that Death paused, seemingly to gather his thoughts. Each subsequent word felt raw, as though this memory was costing him something great.

There was a woman like us, he continued. One who had always been in this world in one form or another. Her name was Life, and she was radiant. Fate was immediately taken with her, and they fell in love before my eyes. Life would create a soul, and Fate would give it purpose. He would weave their story before her. They were kinder stories then. Woven with more care because Life wanted her souls to thrive, and Fate wanted her to be happy. For her to smile. She had a beautiful smile.

Signa’s shoulders stiffened a little, and Death at once clarified, I loved her very much, Little Bird. But it was not romantic. The older we became, the more I began to realize that Life was not like me or Fate. Although he and I were ageless, lines creased her eyes and mouth. She began to tire, and there came a time when the new souls she could generate were few and far between.

One day, she pulled me aside to tell me that it was time for her to go. She told me that life was not meant to be infinite, and that she would return to us in a new form soon enough. For there is no life without experiencing death. She asked me to take her, but first, she wanted one more day with Fate. One more day to say goodbye.

Of course Fate realized what was happening, Death continued, each word seeming to stick to his teeth like gristle. He demanded that I refuse her request. He made it clear that if I didn’t, he would never speak to me again. He couldn’t see that I was mourning, too, and in that mourning… I was susceptible.

When Life came to me the next day, I refused her, and it was the most selfish thing I have ever done. For Life was stronger than any of us, and she knew it was her time to go. She would reincarnate, but none of us knew where or what form she would assume—nor did we know how long it would take for her to find us again. We’d spent a great deal of our existence without her already, and neither Fate nor I wanted to risk that again. But it’s as I said already—one way or another, it was her time.

The more I resisted it, the worse the situation became. Signa kept still, hardly breathing as she clung to his every word. I heard the call of her death. I knew it was time. Still, I resisted until it was pent up inside me and burst, and I gave her the worst imaginable death possible.

The plague, Signa. The Black Death. I was trying so selfishly to keep her alive until I couldn’t manage any longer. She was the first victim, and then it

spread and spread—and, God, how it spread. Do you know how many people died because of my selfishness? Do you know how many innocent lives were taken because of my mistake?

She wished that he was there beside her. That she could take his hand and hold him while he shared this story that was so much worse than she’d expected.

Twenty-five million, he said at last, and Signa felt the severity of such a number like a blow to her stomach. In four years, I claimed twenty-five million innocent lives. All because I was unwilling to let her go.

You loved her, Signa told him, hating that they could speak only through this strange bond that existed between them. We all do ridiculous things for the ones we love. It was why she’d protected Blythe. Why she’d made this deal with Fate, just to have the chance to speak with Death.

It was more than ridiculous, Signa. It was selfish and cruel. I have not seen Life since, and neither has my brother. Perhaps this is our punishment, or perhaps she doesn’t remember us. It’s hard to be certain of anything, but I haven’t been able to find Life since the day I watched her die.

Signa wanted to tell Death everything Fate had told her. She wanted him to laugh and agree that it was absurd to believe that she could be the woman they’d spent so long searching for. But the words clotted in her throat, for she was terrified of what he might think.

If it was true that she was someone else—if there was even a small chance that she was Life, the woman he had killed and the one whom his brother had loved so deeply—would he feel differently about her?

Now it’s my turn to ask a question. Was your visit with my brother eventful?

Signa homed in on each syllable Death spoke, scouring his voice for any sense of just how angry he might be. It was unnervingly difficult to tell.

The ball was pointless. She curled her fingers into the carriage seat. I feel no closer to stopping Fate or discovering Lord Wakefield’s murderer than I did last week. I’m worried about Elijah. And Blythe, too, if we can’t find a way to clear his name. Can’t you get into the constable’s head and convince him of Elijah’s innocence, as you did with Thorn Grove’s staff when Percy disappeared?

Death’s silence weighed on her for a long while as he considered her request. If I did that, Fate would only retaliate with something worse. He

won’t let us disappear this.

At this point, Signa deserved an award for resisting the mounting urge to throw her head back and scream. Sensing her worry, Death said in a voice as smooth as silk, Do not lose faith. We already have a list of suspects in everyone who was at Thorn Grove the night of the murder.

That wasn’t nearly as reassuring as he seemed to think. Half of the town was at Thorn Grove that night.

Perhaps, but this is a start, which is more than you had the last time you solved a murder.

Signa supposed it was true, given that she hadn’t known a single soul when she’d first come to Thorn Grove. Still, she’d known Blythe’s would- be murderer would have had frequent access to Thorn Grove, which… wasn’t much more to go on than she had for Lord Wakefield’s killer.

Why does it feel so much harder this time? She wanted to sound confident; to believe that she would solve this case. But she couldn’t manage the facade. Not with Death.

My brother wasn’t breathing down your neck last time, out for revenge and making light of the situation. And you didn’t love the Hawthornes as you do now. Not at first.

She did love them, immensely so. Which was why she needed to get her head on straight and figure this out. Death was right; even if it wasn’t a great lead, she had someone to start with—Byron.

I don’t yet know how to help you, Death continued, his words as lulling as the spring breeze, but I will speak to my brother. And in the meantime, I want you to stay away from him. Truly, this time. Can you promise me that?

It would be an impossible promise, given Fate’s intentions with her. But Signa didn’t think Death needed to know the full details of that. At least not until she deciphered her own feelings, first. I promise to do what I can, and that I will use discretion. It was the best she could offer, and though he sighed her name, Death seemed to know better than to protest.

Has anyone ever told you how immensely stubborn you are?

She was surprised by the grin that split her lips. Would you have me any other way?

His pause was enough of an answer. Keep it up, Little Bird, and we’ll see if you’re still as stubborn the next time I get my hands on you.

The mental image of that promise sent her into an imaginative spiral.

She shifted, suddenly uncomfortably warm in what felt like the mountains of fabric she wore. And just what will you do? Describe it to me in detail.

Death’s voice was a low growl, yet Signa never managed to hear his reply. Instead, her body jolted to attention as a voice that was decidedly not Death’s asked, “What on earth has you grinning like that?”

Signa’s eyes flew open as Blythe took her by the shoulder, leaning forward to inspect her cousin. She pressed the back of her hand to Signa’s cheeks, her forehead wrinkling. “You’re flushed from the neck up! Do you think you’re coming down with something?”

Blythe’s hand was hot against her skin, though Signa had only a moment to notice it before she jerked back in surprise. “I’m perfectly well!”

She must have flushed even deeper, for Blythe narrowed her eyes for a long moment before her face lit with delight. “Oh my God, you were dreaming about a man, weren’t you? Who was it? You must tell me!”

Death’s low, rumbling laughter sounded in the back of Signa’s mind. Go on, he taunted, tell her.

“It was no one—”

“Don’t give me that.” Blythe scoffed. “Did you meet someone at the ball? Given that you did not so much as blink in his presence, it surely wasn’t the prince.”

As much as she would have loved to say she’d met someone, Signa was so flustered that it was a struggle to even recall her own name, let alone that of anyone else at the soiree. Knowing Blythe, handing over a name would be like granting her permission to stalk the poor man and figure out every last detail about him, his family, his deepest secrets, and his worthiness of Signa. And so, without giving it too much thought, she said the first name that came to her mind.

“It was of Everett Wakefield.”

Blythe’s mouth slammed shut. She folded her hands pleasantly in her lap, doing a poor job of appearing at ease. “Well he’s… I mean, I suppose he is eligible. But goodness, Signa, the timing. I wondered if you still might be interested in him after everything. It seemed your attention diverted from him over the past months, though I didn’t want to pry. God only knows he could use some company, with everything he’s going through—though have you seen the way Charlotte looks at him? I wonder what she might think if the two of you were to make a match.”

“I suppose I’ll have to ask.” As the towering spires and iron gates of Thorn Grove came into view, Signa breathed a sigh of relief so heavy it fogged the window. The sooner she could get out of the carriage, the better.

Death, after all, was waiting for her.