BLYTHE

BLYTHE’S CHEST FELT FRIGHTFULLY CLOSE TO BURSTING AS SHE pressed

herself against the carriage and as far from Signa as space allowed. She settled clammy fingers against her throat, focusing on her beating pulse and counting each of her breaths to try to bring herself back into some semblance of calm.

She couldn’t stop looking at Signa, who wasn’t so foolish as to not notice. Like Blythe, Signa kept herself pressed to the opposite side of the carriage, making herself small in the cramped space.

People always said that she was cursed. No matter how hard Blythe tried, she couldn’t shake Charlotte’s warning. Why did she run toward the fire?

From the moment they’d met, Blythe had known there was something strange about Signa. She’d considered others’ nervousness toward her a misunderstanding and social bias, as Signa’s skin was eerily pale and her eyes large and knowing. But when Signa had arrived at Thorn Grove, Blythe’s life had improved tenfold. It had been fun.

There’d been someone to fill her in on all the gossip and scandals she’d missed. Someone who didn’t just treat her like the fragile sick girl. Not to mention that her life had been spared thanks to Signa. And beyond that, she’d also met a wonderful friend. A sister, really.

At least, she thought she had.

Blythe curled her hands into fists, letting her fingernails dig into her skin as though the pain might somehow clear her head, which hadn’t stopped

spinning since the game of croquet.

There were no words for what she’d seen—gauzy, hazy glimpses of shadows that hovered behind Signa. Shadows that Signa had spoken to when she thought no one was listening, and that had helped guide her mallet.

It was positively ridiculous and impossible and preposterous, and yet… Blythe had seen those shadows before. When she had been breaths away from dying, they had shared a room with her. She hadn’t wanted to give thought to those dark times and dredge up such bitter memories, but she was certain that Signa had seen those shadows, too; had spoken with them.

As close as she had been to death, the memory itself was fuzzy. No matter how hard Blythe tried, she couldn’t sharpen her mind’s eye or bring that scene into focus. But there were other oddities, too. Ones that she did remember, like when Elaine’s reflection had shown a sickly, dying body. Or when thorny vines had erupted from beneath the floorboards to tear into her. Blythe could see the shadows even then, fainter than they’d been but still lingering around Signa like a gray haze. She squinted, ensuring it

wasn’t a trick of the light.

“What is it?” Signa asked with a hitch of nerves that immediately made Blythe’s stomach flip with guilt. “Have I grown a third arm?”

“No, but you are sprouting silver hair.” Blythe’s mouth was painfully dry. It was a struggle to even form the words, for she hated these thoughts. Hated that she could even be considering Signa in this way. But Charlotte’s seedling about suspecting Signa in Percy’s disappearance had taken root and was growing into a full conspiracy, and the events of the day had further convinced her that something was not right.

“What happened today?” Each word tore at Blythe’s throat, and though she’d asked the question, she didn’t know if she was ready for the answer.

Signa tensed. “Do you mean with the prince?” She sounded so genuine that Blythe again wondered whether she might have been hallucinating these strange horrors. Perhaps this was a strange side effect of being so close to death one too many times, and Signa knew nothing about the darkness that followed her. Perhaps these horrors were all in Blythe’s head.

But there was no way that Signa didn’t know something about Percy, and so Blythe forced herself to press on. “I want you to tell me I’m wrong. I want you to tell me I need to lie down and that I’m seeing things, because

the rooms you walk into get cold, Signa. Your hair is losing its color, and there is a darkness that follows you even now. A darkness that I’ve seen you speak to.

“You haven’t played a game of croquet in your life,” Blythe continued. It was a guess, but she must have been right, given that Signa did not argue. “Something was helping you, or someone. I need you to explain it to me because I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Signa opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but to her credit promptly shut it once more.

Blythe knew then—knew with everything in her, no matter how much she wished she could play dumb—that Charlotte had been onto something, and that perhaps there was more merit to the rumors about Signa than she and her family had ever acknowledged.

Her cousin was quiet, and Blythe instinctively wrapped her hand around the carriage’s handle in case she needed to throw herself out. It looked like Signa was having some sort of mental conversation with herself, and Blythe wondered whether she’d try to come up with a story. Whether she would try to get out of this.

Instead, Signa reached forward to take Blythe’s free hand, and all Blythe could do was squeeze it tight, praying that her uneasiness was a mistake. That Signa would tell her that she was being paranoid.

Instead, Signa said, “There’s something I need to show you,” and Blythe felt her world shatter.