WHEN SIGNA RETURNED TO HER ROOMS THAT EVENING, DEATH WAS WAITING.

Though she could not see him, his oppressiveness weighed upon her the moment she stepped over the threshold. It felt as though she were wading through gelatin as she forced one foot after the other, her excitement stifled by the instinct to turn back.

Her eyes darted around the room, and she wished she could catch a glimpse of him. But all she saw was Gundry curled by the fire, his paws sprawled near the hearth as he slept, seemingly without a care in the world even as every hair along Signa’s neck rose.

“What is it?” she whispered, though she already knew the source of Death’s anger before his words filled her thoughts.

Tell me I’m mistaken. For once Death’s voice was no balm to her soul but a blizzard that chilled every inch of her. Tell me that you are no fool, Little Bird, and that you did not make a bargain with my brother.

“I did not make a bargain with your brother.” Signa shut the door behind her and turned the lock, worried someone might stroll by and see her breath pluming the air. “I made two. And I understand if you’re frustrated, but—”

Frustrated? The fire in the hearth flickered, rousing Gundry from his slumber. The hound lifted his head and growled low in his throat. You haven’t the faintest idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Fate is not someone you bargain with, Signa.

The last time Signa could remember hearing him this angry was after she’d first met Eliza Wakefield and the other girls for tea months earlier. He’d hated how Signa had stifled herself around them, pretending to be someone she wasn’t solely to appease them. This time, though, there wasn’t

just anger in his tone, but something else that Signa couldn’t place.

“What other choice did I have?” she asked. “It was either a bargain with him or never getting to see or speak with you again. Besides, it was my idea, not his.”

Death’s laugh was the most intoxicating poison, and even amid her mounting annoyance, Signa found herself wanting little more than to drown herself in it.

This is what he wanted to happen. He spat each word, as if he could not get them past his lips fast enough. It was Fate who laid out this game and placed its pieces precisely where he wanted them. And you fell for the trap.

There was a storm brewing in Signa’s chest, rage heating her cheeks and palms. This was her idea, not Fate’s. She had come up with it. She had approached him, ensuring that every word was spoken with intention so that she could get precisely what she wanted out of the deal.

She was in control… wasn’t she?

These are not decisions you have to make alone, Death told her, and Signa knew he must have been close from the way frost brushed across her lips. And yet you have done so.

His last few words were spoken pointedly enough that Signa took note. She braced herself against her desk, squeezing the edge of it. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Death’s answer did not come with storm-sharpened wind but with a sigh that eased much of the pressure in the room. I would understand if you wanted to make the deal, Signa. So much has been thrown at you, and you have options now that you didn’t have before. It makes sense if you’re curious, though I must warn you—

“I have no need for your warnings.” Signa realized then what the strange tension was in Death’s voice: fear.

He thought she was interested in Fate. The very idea was absurd, yet no laugh bubbled in her throat. Instead, she followed Gundry’s eyes to where Death stood and gave herself no time to contemplate before she stalked toward him. She ripped off a glove at the last second and managed to find a bare slice of his skin before Death had the chance to pull away.

Immediately, Signa’s heartbeat slowed, only this time her shift into the reaper was far from peaceful. She fell to her knees as her lungs collapsed, head swimming as her body fought for breaths that refused to come. She

gripped her throat, clawing at it until all she saw was white. There was no saying how long she was like that before irate shadows slipped into her vision, seizing hold of her. Even in his rage Death was tender, and Signa leaned into his embrace.

“My foolish girl,” he whispered, drawing her into powerful arms that wound tight around her. “What were you thinking?”

That was the problem—when it came to those Signa loved, she often wasn’t thinking at all. She leaned back, cupping his face.

“You’re the fool,” she told him. “When I made that deal, it’s because I wanted you, not your ridiculous brother. Why are you so afraid of him?”

Death set his hands atop hers, and though he offered a smile for Signa’s benefit, it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not him I’m afraid of, Signa.”

“Who, then?” she pressed, searching his eyes, which hardened as he looked at her. “Who are you afraid of?”

There was no reading his stare. No deciphering the tension in his jaw as he stepped back and extended a hand to her. “Come,” he whispered, and Signa wished she could disappear into that honeyed tone. “I’ll show you.”

Wisteria Gardens was almost unrecognizable as Death led Signa through its once-illustrious courtyard. If not for the marble fountain and the thriving wisteria draped over them from the canopy above, she wouldn’t have had the faintest idea where he’d taken her. As it was, she hesitated as they approached a palace that looked nothing like the one she’d ventured into only a few nights prior.

“We’ll need to be quick,” Death said. “There’s no saying when Fate will return.” He held Signa’s hand as they cut across the lawn to the dilapidated stone building. It was the very same one she’d glimpsed in the moment that Fate’s powers had slipped during his soiree. Able to see it fully in the glow of the setting sun, Signa took in the ancient gray stones that looked one door slam away from crumbling. If not for the fact that she was in her reaper form, Signa might not have dared approach it for fear of it toppling upon her.

“Why does it look like this?” She frowned at the withering grass beneath her feet, missing the verdant green fields from the days prior. There were no animals, either, she noticed. No bleating sheep or hoofbeats to fill the air. The palace was eerily silent—a resting dreamworld awaiting the return of its dreamer.

“My brother created this home ages ago.” Death cast a look around them before he pulled Signa through the front wall. “It is a part of him and has always reflected who he is and what he’s feeling internally.”

Where there was once a grand entryway and a gorgeous parlor with a roaring hearth, now the entry coughed thick plumes of gray smoke from dying embers. The interior walls were every bit as bare and ruined as the palace’s exterior, and though much of the art was still on display, the colors had dulled to blend in with the gray stone. Gone was any hint of the extravagance Fate had made such a show of.

“It doesn’t even look like the same place,” Signa whispered, taking one step up the staircase. It was so rickety that she had no doubt the planks would have snapped beneath her feet were she not gliding across them.

“It used to be every bit as luxurious as you last saw it, forever changing with his whims or to suit wherever he traveled.” Death kept his shadows near Signa as they made their way toward the highest story.

“What happened to it?” She folded her hands and pressed them against her chest, resisting the urge to touch anything as she and Death made their way past the ballroom. Signa poked her head inside, her heart falling when she found that all the beautiful amber paneling had vanished.

Rather than answer right away, Death led her farther down the hall to the portrait where Signa had seen Blythe and Fate speaking. She hadn’t gotten a chance to look closely at it then but now saw that the woman depicted was the loveliest she’d ever seen, with hair as pale as bone and a softness she couldn’t look away from.

“That’s Life,” she whispered, somehow recognizing the woman. “Isn’t it?”

Sorrow plagued Death’s eyes. “Wisteria began to deteriorate the moment my brother lost her. I let myself believe that he’d get better with time, but this place is worse now than I’ve ever seen it.”

Life’s painting, Signa noticed, was the only thing in the palace that was still in full color. She had to stand several lengths away and tip her head

back to see it fully, for it took up the length of an entire wall. She tilted her head, trying to catch a glimpse of the woman’s eyes as Death eased her away.

“You asked me who I was afraid of.” He stretched his hand out, brushing fingers across the portrait’s frame. “My brother may be a nuisance, but I do not fear him. I do, however, fear you, Signa. I fear that someday you will break my heart.”

His sincerity tore through her, bowing her spine. “It seems that even Death has irrational fears,” she whispered. Death, however, did not seem convinced.

“There is only one person in this world who ever held the power you used the night in Elijah’s study,” he said. “So long as my brother believes that you and she are one and the same, he won’t leave you be. Having seen the two of them together, I can understand why.

“When I look around this place, I see my brother for what he is,” Death continued. “A desperate man who has spent hundreds of years unable to move on from the woman who laid claim to his heart. He will not know peace until he finds her. To make a deal with him, you need to understand the stakes. You need to see him for who he is. None of us would want to spend a single lifetime in such despair, let alone the eternity my brother will endure.”

Signa couldn’t tear her eyes from the portrait. The woman in it was different from her in every way, and yet Signa felt drawn to Life in a manner that words could not describe.

Fate presented himself as a confident and assured man, but if what Death said was true and Wisteria Gardens was truly a reflection of his inner self, then Fate was on the precipice of breaking beyond repair. She tried to swallow down the pity knotting her throat, turning away from the portrait.

“There’s more to see.” Death reached for the frame again, keeping one hand on Signa to ensure she remained in her reaper form. It took him a moment before he found a small latch, a soft click sounding as he pressed it.

The portrait swung open, revealing a massive room of tapestries. “Watch your head,” Death warned as they stepped inside, and she ducked just in time for a tapestry to swing over her head, its threads unraveling into an assortment of colors, each of which landed in a separate basket.

Signa couldn’t look away. It didn’t make sense how the lines of tapestries continued to move, let alone how threads and needles wove without any hand to guide them, yet the room reminded Signa of a factory all the same. She was enthralled by the process, tempted to disappear down the line and explore when Death squeezed her hand.

“To you and me, these will only ever look like tapestries. But to Fate, a single thread is the difference between life and death. That is his power, Signa. If ever you believe that you are the one in control—if ever he tries to strike another deal—I want you to think of this room.”

Signa shivered. She may not have understood this place in its entirety, but there was no denying its raw magic. Perhaps Death was right—Signa may not have been as clever with her deal as she’d believed.

“My brother will use every bit of his power to steal you away.” Death’s hand slid to her hip, backing her against the stone wall as a dark possessiveness worked its way into his voice. “And unless you decide that you want to go, I will use every bit of mine and more to keep you here with me. There are to be no more bargains. Do you understand?” He tipped her chin up, speaking the words against her lips.

His voice muddled her thoughts, not a single one of them tame as she arched her back and pressed deeper into Death’s touch. She was helpless against him, craving him against her skin.

“No more bargains,” she repeated, pleasure shooting through her as she captured his lips. Death groaned softly as he hooked his arms around her, hiking her up so that she could wrap her legs around his waist.

“Very good.” His hand slipped beneath her skirts then, snaking up her thigh.

She gave no thought to where they were as she tipped her head against the stone, urging his hand higher. Yet Death stilled as a noise sounded from the first floor, easing his hand back and pressing it instead to Signa’s lips.

Easy, Death’s voice whispered through her mind. My brother cannot see us in this state.

Perhaps not, though he could see that the door had been left ajar. Ever so slowly, Death slid his shadows toward the portrait, though the moment he went to press it shut, it gave a quiet squeak that made the rest of the palace still, as if holding its breath. Fate, too, was quiet for a long moment before Signa heard the stomp of Fate’s boots hurrying up the steps.

Signa curled her fingers into Death’s shoulders. Brilliant work. Very “ghosts passing through” of you, she hissed, tensing with Fate’s every step. Death ignored her as the shadows surged forward, shutting the door with a click so loud that she nearly groaned.

Death smirked at her then, pressing one last kiss to Signa’s mouth before he leaned forward and whispered in her ear, “Hold on tight.”

She did, and the second the door swung open and Fate stalked inside, Death threw the shadows around them and transported them back to Thorn Grove.