BLYTHE

SURELY, BLYTHE WAS BEING POISONED AGAIN, FOR WHAT ELSE COULD explain

what she’d seen in her father’s study?

She had never run faster than she did the moment she was able to free herself from the ivy, and it had taken hours of pacing and fretting and convincing herself that she must be seeing things before she’d gathered enough nerve to return to the study, only to find that no plants waited inside. Every floorboard was unscathed, and the desk and its papers were free from even a bit of earth.

It was then that Blythe realized she was losing her mind.

She refused to linger in the study, sucking in thin breaths as she hurried not to her room but down the stairs and out of Thorn Grove altogether, trying not to scream and alert the entire manor to her ailment.

It’d been a long while since she’d left Thorn Grove in anything but a carriage. Worried about a relapse in her health, Elijah had kept a cautious eye on her, ensuring that Blythe had little physical exertion and that the staff doted on her. But her body was trembling too fiercely for her to hole up alone in her room, and so Blythe took to stomping around the yard for the good part of an hour, soaking up the springtime warmth into her bones as she debated whether she should tell Signa what had happened.

In the end Blythe decided she wanted more time. More time to see if this was only a temporary relapse. More time to feel at least a little normal, without everyone treating her like a fragile crystal heirloom. And so she ventured to the stables instead, where a groom she’d never seen crouched in

the hay with a small foal curled beside him. The poor thing was quivering, its eyes unopened and its breaths heavy. A beautiful golden mare poked its head over from the next stall, watching. Blythe’s gut clenched as she realized that it was her mother’s horse, Mitra.

The groom sang as he stroked his fingers through the foal’s coat, and though it took a minute for her to recognize the tune, Blythe’s laugh was the softest breath when she realized he was singing an entirely inappropriate song about a bonny lass who worked on a farm, his voice tired and thick with a lilting brogue.

Blythe’s eyes trailed from him to the foal, and very quietly she asked, “Will it be all right?”

The groom bolted upright. “Miss Hawthorne! Oh, God. Forgive me, I’d no idea I was in the presence of a lady.” His eyes were round and wide, and he was failing spectacularly at not tripping over himself. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“The foal. Will it be all right?”

His face softened. “Only time will tell, miss. All there is to do now is make him comfortable and pray for the best.”

Blythe’s chest tightened to a point where she could barely breathe, and she hated that she followed her first instinct of turning away from the newborn. It was too difficult to look at the dead or the dying these days; the reminder of how much time she’d spent at that threshold was still too awful to bear.

She forced her attention back to the task at hand. Her father would rage if he knew she’d even made the trek to the stables in the first place, let alone that she wanted to ride horseback. Fortunately for her, the groom was new to the job, hired by Byron only a week prior.

“I’d like to take Mitra out.” Blythe folded her hands behind her back and tried to look confident. The groom glanced past her, the tiniest crease knitting between his brows when he saw she was alone.

“Will you be needing an escort?”

It was a sincere question. An honest and expected one that any proper groom would think to ask. Still, it had Blythe bristling, for there was a time when something like riding horseback had been so easy for her that his question would have been laughable. Now she was too unfamiliar with her new stamina to know when she might tire, and she wasn’t so foolish as to

allow the possibility of getting stuck unaccompanied in the woods. And so Blythe bit her tongue and told him, “That would be much appreciated, Mr.…”

“Crepsley. William Crepsley.” He had hands calloused from hard work, a broad frame, and suntanned skin that did not belong to a man of high society. He couldn’t have been much older than Blythe, and she noted his kind round face and earnestness. Given how new he was, he would undoubtedly wish to make a good impression, which meant that he’d be far too easy to take advantage of.

“Will the foal be all right alone?”

“It won’t be alone,” William promised. “The examiner will be here soon, and Mr. Haysworth will care for it in the interim.”

Blythe nodded, though she didn’t have the faintest clue who Mr. Haysworth was. For twenty years she’d lived within the walls of Thorn Grove, and yet it was becoming more unfamiliar to her by the day. It would take ages to learn the names and faces of the new staff members.

“Very well. Then I would appreciate an escort to the Killinger estate, Mr.

Crepsley. I’m happy to lead the way.”

As William nodded and set off to ready the horses, Blythe found herself more grateful than he would ever know. Not because he was kind or so fresh to this job that he didn’t realize she wasn’t meant to be here, but because if the earth began to sprout moss and thorns once again, at least this time she wouldn’t be alone.

William was slower than he ought to have been, though Blythe gave him no trouble. She was certain he was triple-checking his work, likely because he’d not had the opportunity to prep a horse for a proper ride since he’d started at Thorn Grove. But she kept her patience, and soon the groom returned with Mitra and another saddled white mare.

Mitra approached with her head low and her tail swishing, snorting a pleasant greeting at Blythe, who pressed a palm to the horse’s forehead and curled her fingers into the beautiful golden mane. It’d been ages since she’d

seen the horse. Ages since her mother had been alive and well enough to go on rides with her nearly every afternoon. Blythe could almost hear the echo of her mother’s laughter as they rode. Could almost see her windblown hair shining like a sunburst against the sky.

For too long she’d avoided the memories of her mother, desperate not to follow in her path. But now, standing on the other side of death’s door, Blythe ached with nostalgia that had her longing for any remnants of her mother that were still left on this earth.

“Here you are, miss.” William steadied Mitra as Blythe slipped her foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself onto the saddle. Her throat tightened the moment she felt the steady lull of Mitra’s breathing beneath her. How long had it been since she’d had the strength to pull herself up without thinking anything of it? Blythe turned away from the groom as tears pricked her eyes.

Perhaps her subconscious had known all along that this was what she needed. She must have been more on edge than she’d realized to find so much solace in the stables. Still, Blythe’s heart couldn’t quite settle its discontented pounding. Not after what she’d seen in her father’s study, or what she’d read in those journals.

Blythe tightened her grip on the reins, determined to find the truth.

Charlotte Killinger had run into Signa the night of Percy’s disappearance. She was the one who’d alerted Elijah that the garden was on fire. Blythe had talked to her once already, months ago. But perhaps there was more information to be gleaned; if anyone could tell her more about what happened that night in the woods, it was Charlotte.

Blythe led the charge through the softened soil and into woods so achingly familiar that she felt like a child once more. She didn’t see just trees of ripe green bending toward them like a wanting mouth, but saw the ghost of her mother weaving through spindly branches, never letting them tear the hem of her white dress as they so often did with Blythe’s. Birds knocked their greetings upon the trunks of towering oaks or sang sweet spring pleasantries. Blythe heard her brother’s laughter within them. Heard him scolding her for letting herself get so soiled and calling after their mother to help Blythe fish her snared hair from greedy branches.

The farther they ventured into the woods the more Blythe’s nose stung and her eyes watered. She was glad, at least, that time had not dulled her

familiarity with the land. She’d grown up on this soil, snatching plump berries from the bushes and trailing after Percy just long enough to see his ever so gentlemanly self sneak into a thicket of trees with different ladies over the years when he thought no one was paying attention. She nearly laughed at the memory; she’d be sure to tease Percy about it once they managed to find him.

Blythe didn’t need a path to know where she was going. She could make her way through the woods by the bend of the branches or by which trees browned with each waning season. The woods had always been a part of her, more entrenched in her soul than she’d ever realized.

Blythe would have given anything to close her eyes and let herself turn left, down the forgotten path to her mother’s garden, where the scent of lilies would caress her. She wanted to let herself believe that her mother would be waiting for her, watching the lotus flowers cascade through the pond or sitting on her favorite bench and reading a book that Blythe would later steal for herself.

But all that awaited her in the garden were ashes and the ghost of too- sweet memories. And so, Blythe turned right, away from the garden and toward the home of Charlotte Killinger.

It took less than twenty minutes to reach the estate that sat nestled at the base of the woods, sheltered by a fortress of towering elms. It wasn’t nearly as large as Thorn Grove, though its charm was unrivaled. Where Thorn Grove was grim, even the gray smoke pluming from the chimney of the Killinger estate somehow felt lovely. Creeping vines snaked around the estate’s dark stone, fighting to consume a front door that also seemed to be at war with the shrubbery growing against it. If someone tore out the image of a fairy-tale cottage and magicked it to life, Blythe imagined it would look like Charlotte’s home. The lawn upon which the home sat was a rich and vibrant green, surrounded by goose plums and a single elderberry tree. Moss crept up the iron fence around the property, and through its slats Blythe saw that Charlotte was already outside.

She was not, however, alone.

Everett Wakefield sat beside Charlotte, sporting a boyish grin. Charlotte was laughing, squeezing his hands in hers as they spoke in low, happy whispers. There was no sign of any escort, and Blythe felt every bit a voyeur as Everett stole a kiss that Charlotte was all too happy to return.

Flushed from the neck up, Blythe turned toward William and said, louder than she had any right to, “Would you look at that, Mr. Crepsley, it seems we’ve arrived sooner than expected!”

Charlotte shoved Everett away from her, the two of them whispering in a rush of words Blythe couldn’t decipher. She pretended to be looking elsewhere and entirely unaware of Everett as he scurried out of sight.

Blythe had always known that Charlotte was interested in Everett; she just hadn’t known whether her interest was reciprocated. How curious that neither of them had said anything of their relationship.

Only after adjusting her dress and ensuring her hair was in place did Charlotte hurry toward them.

“Look at you!” She gasped. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you atop a horse!”

Ignoring the weariness of her bones and everything she had just witnessed, Blythe tipped her chin upward and said, “I fear the world is not prepared for the power I wield now that my strength has returned.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “And just like that, I’ve seen enough.” She tried to inconspicuously rub away a grass stain on her skirt as William dropped from his mare and took hold of Mitra’s reigns so that Blythe could dismount. She hadn’t realized how winded she was, for while her strength had greatly recovered in the past few months, every now and then that familiar exhaustion would catch up with her, prickling her vision or tightening her chest. A reminder not to overexert herself.

As keen as she was, Charlotte must have been able to sense her friend’s fatigue. She looped her arm through Blythe’s in a silent offer of support.

“Is it just the two of you?” Charlotte looked toward the forest, likely searching for Signa. “Why don’t we have a seat? Mr. Pembrooke?” Charlotte turned to a tall, heavyset man in a suit just as he emerged from the house. “Please show Miss Hawthorne’s groom to the stables and see that he is given whatever he desires.”

“At once, my lady.” Mr. Pembrooke nodded, and the two men were on their way across the field and to the stables a moment later.

“Forgive my spontaneity,” Blythe said once they were alone. “I know you don’t typically receive visitors today, but I felt it best if I got away from Thorn Grove for a while.”

Momentarily, the light in Charlotte’s expression winked out. “It’s a

wonder you don’t get out more often, with everything they say about that place.”

Had Charlotte said such a thing the day before, Blythe might have been offended. But after what she’d witnessed in the study, she could no longer be certain that the rumors of Thorn Grove’s hauntings weren’t true.

“I’ve managed this long,” Blythe replied. There was a blueberry bush behind them, sad and dying despite the warming weather. She looked to the bush as she spoke, skimming her fingers over its bare twigs. “Though there is something I’d like to speak with you about.”

Blythe had never seen anyone swallow a frog, but she imagined that if she had, they would look like Charlotte did in that moment. “Oh?” Her eyes strayed toward the direction in which Everett had hurried off. While Blythe would have loved nothing more than to ask about what she’d witnessed between them, Charlotte was far too proper to be comfortable knowing that anyone had been privy to such a moment of fondness.

“I’d like for you to walk me through everything you saw the night of my brother’s disappearance.”

Charlotte’s relief was so intense that Blythe could almost feel it easing her own tired muscles. “No good can come of this conversation, Blythe. We’ve been over this already.”

They had been. Still, Blythe pressed, “Oblige me once more. I promise this will be the last time I ask.”

Charlotte sighed as she led Blythe to a nearby bench beneath the shade of a great maple tree, away from prying ears. “I’ve told you everything I know. I saw Percy briefly in the woods, heading toward your mother’s garden. He hardly acknowledged me when I said hello, and—”

“How did he seem?” Blythe interrupted, squinting hard at the ground to visualize the scene in her mind. “Was he in a hurry? Was he walking slowly?”

Charlotte’s dark eyes cut to her with alarming severity. “He seemed like everyone who runs out of Thorn Grove talking of ghosts. If you want me to be frank with you, he sounded half mad. He told me he was headed to the garden—that’s it. Our conversation was brief.” She told Blythe then of how Signa had gone after him, and how Charlotte herself had made haste to Thorn Grove to warn Elijah.

“And then the smoke started, right?” Blythe asked. “We must be missing

something! Percy wouldn’t just run off into the forest. He wouldn’t just disappear like that, especially not when—”

“When you were sick?” Charlotte didn’t wait to see Blythe’s face fall before she scooted close and laid a hand on her lap. “If he truly left of his own accord, then there must have been a good reason for it.”

It was the same story that Blythe had heard a thousand times over. The same one that Signa had shared. Percy was paranoid that someone was after him after being poisoned at the Christmas ball. Because Elijah had made it clear that Percy would never take over Grey’s, he had no reason to remain at Thorn Grove. He fled for his safety. The story, in every respect, fit.

Except for one thing—why had Percy never tried to contact them? Not for money, not to share his whereabouts, and most painfully, not to check on Blythe’s health and ensure she was still alive. Perhaps he was worried that contacting anyone would endanger him, but… wouldn’t he have at least tried?

Perhaps Percy truly had started a life under a different name, someplace where their family wasn’t a constant target. Blythe, however, couldn’t ignore Byron’s notes or the crossed-off maps. The Hawthornes’ resources were infinite.

Charlotte was tentative when she next spoke, her words low. “If Percy moved elsewhere, they should have been able to find him.”

“What do you mean, ‘if’?” Blythe pressed, her mind unable to stray from that single word. “If he didn’t leave on his own accord, then what do you think happened?”

Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, as if to ensure no one was approaching. “It’s not my place to speculate.”

“Of course I want you to speculate! That’s why I’m here—”

This time when Blythe’s words cut off, it was because Charlotte pressed her hand over Blythe’s mouth, smothering any sound.

“You are glossing over an important part of what came next, Blythe. The part where I ran into your cousin. It’s hardly me that you should be asking these questions—I wasn’t the one who ran toward the fire that night.”

Blythe tore herself from Charlotte, wiping her mouth. “You think Signa is the reason for Percy’s disappearance?” Blythe’s laughter was a harsh, cleaving sound that had Charlotte sitting stiffly upright. “What do you think she could have done to him? Run him out of town? Do you think she’s

strong enough to have killed him?”

Blythe was a coiled snake ready to strike the hand feeding her. She knew full well that she had no business behaving like this at Charlotte’s own home, and yet she couldn’t withhold the anger that festered within her. She was used to people backing away when she bit; it was how she protected herself from whatever she didn’t care to face. So when Charlotte sat tall and unflinching, it was Blythe who began to shrivel, panic settling in.

“I knew Signa when we were only children,” Charlotte insisted. “She was my closest friend because I liked that she was a little strange, and that she spent her days in the woods like I did. People would say things about her, but I never listened. There are rumors, though. Rumors about why she’s been passed from family to family, and why all her guardians have died.

“People always said that she was cursed, though I didn’t believe it until her uncle died,” Charlotte continued, each word quieter than the previous. “And then my own mother followed. My father and I fled, and for years I thought it was silly. Signa couldn’t have been the reason my mother and her uncle contracted the disease that killed them. I was glad to see her again, but ever since that night in the garden I can’t help but wonder… why did she run toward the fire?”

Blythe didn’t need to think about the answer; she knew it in her bones. “She was looking for Percy.”

“Perhaps.” Charlotte’s fingers clenched the edge of the bench. “Again, it’s not my place to speculate.”

Blythe wished suddenly that she’d never come to Charlotte’s. Because Signa had saved her life. She had been there when no one else had. She was Blythe’s person, which was all Blythe could think of as she flagged William and summoned their horses. She mounted wordlessly while Charlotte looked on, her expression hostile.

“Everett wants to keep his eye on her, you know,” she called as Blythe gathered the reins in her hand. “Why do you think he’s invited you all to the investiture? Surely, you can’t believe it’s because he still cares for her.”

Blythe paused then, only for a moment and only because she had never heard such malice seep from Charlotte’s tongue. Even Miss Killinger seemed to quickly recognize her slipup, for her eyes went wide as she covered her mouth.

And though Blythe knew better—though she hadn’t wanted to say a

word about it—she felt such a protective fire for Signa that she could not help but reply. “Given what I just witnessed between you and Everett, it never crossed my mind that he did. When you go back to him, do tell him hello for me, would you?”

Charlotte drew back, and Blythe hated that she’d hit her mark. One word from Blythe, and Charlotte’s reputation would be ruined.

Blythe wouldn’t say anything, of course, and she hated herself for even letting Charlotte believe that she might. Without another breath between them, Charlotte hurried inside while Blythe snapped the reins and set off atop Mitra, William keeping pace beside her.

“There was a man hiding in the stables,” he whispered. “He was squatting behind a hay bale.”

The look that Blythe cut him was indignant. “No, there was not.”

This time, as she gave Mitra a gentle kick and hurried into the forest’s embrace, it wasn’t her mother that Blythe thought of as branches clawed her hair and snagged her dress. She was instead reminded of the ladies of this season, who would claw at anyone they could to get ahead; Charlotte’s competitiveness had her behaving no better than the others.

Yet that wasn’t why, in that moment, Blythe hated Charlotte more than anyone in the world. Rather, it was because Charlotte had planted a seed inside her mind. And no matter how hard Blythe tried to be rid of it, the idea was a weed within her thoughts, burying itself deep and spreading its roots.

There was no way that Signa would have ever harmed Percy. She loved him, just as she loved Blythe.…

… Didn’t she?