BLYTHE
FOXGLOVE WAS MAZE OF A MANOR, WHERE EVERY ROOM FELT LIKE its own
story.
The bottom floor portrayed an unassuming seaside home decorated with gentle blues and lattice trim, yet as one made their way upward, the home shifted into themes of flora and fauna with darkening wallpaper that grew wilder the closer one got to the grand ballroom.
Byron gave no sign of his own opinions of the manor. He’d hardly spoken two words to Blythe since Elijah’s verdict, and the gloom upon his face had grown increasingly darker by the day.
She’d separated from him the moment they’d arrived at Foxglove, and Byron had seemed relieved for it. Left to her own devices, Blythe searched for shadows as she scoured the manor’s lowest floor, careful to keep herself beneath the glittering glow of the chandelier. She cast paranoid glances over her shoulders, expecting Death to be waiting for her.
How many times had she escaped him now? Was he angry? Would he try to take her again the first chance he got?
Blythe remembered his cold claws around her throat and the way the chill had seeped through her skin and settled within her bones, stealing the breath she’d fought so hard for. She remembered Signa standing before him, pleading for Blythe’s life.
If Signa was a killer, why would she have fought so hard to save her? If she was out to get the Hawthorne family, she could have let Death take Blythe several times over. Instead, she and Percy together had brought
Blythe the Calabar bean that spared her. It didn’t make sense that Signa would harm Percy; it had to have been Death’s hand pulling the strings.
Though Blythe knew nothing about the reaper and his powers, she felt safest beneath the light’s warm glow. When someone offered her a glass of champagne, she took it with a smile, only to set it down on a table the moment the staff turned away, not about to end up like the late Lord Wakefield. She’d managed to get this far without letting Death get hold of her, and she had no intention of that changing tonight.
“Why do you look like that?” The voice came from behind her, and Blythe turned to see Aris pick up her discarded champagne and take a long sip from the flute. Blythe stilled when he swallowed, silently counting the seconds to see whether he would keel over and die. It wouldn’t be without precedent, after all. Blythe had done enough investigating of the manor’s history to know that a plague of deaths would not be a new occurrence for Foxglove. Still, she let herself relax when Aris remained standing.
“Look like what?” she asked.
Aris twirled his champagne, taking his time to respond. “Like a fawn readying itself to flee.” He took two more sips and set down the empty flute. “It’s difficult not to notice. Your dress isn’t very discreet.”
Blythe flushed. She’d packed quickly, choosing gowns she thought would suit a seaside aesthetic. She hadn’t expected Foxglove to be quite so gloomy, though it seemed fitting that Signa would live in such a beautifully dreary place. As it was, Blythe had chosen a blush ballgown that skewed on the side of pink. It had pleated frills along the bottom, and collapsed sleeves laced with ivory. The crinoline she wore beneath her skirts was so full that it made it difficult to sleuth about. She hadn’t even thought to consider that issue.
“I was looking for him.” Blythe’s eyes flickered to the corners of the room yet again. Aris followed her gaze with a frown.
“I don’t think you’ll find him on the ceiling, love. And he’s not going to swoop down and kidnap you. Relax, little fawn, and tell me—have you got the tapestry?”
Blythe wasn’t at all convinced by Aris. Still, she answered, “I do.” Aris squinted. “Where?”
“Don’t worry about that.” Blythe shot him an incredulous look. She distracted herself from the embarrassment of admitting it was pressed
beneath her corset by taking in the sights of Foxglove.
While Blythe was no stranger to living in homes with unusual design aesthetics, there was something unsettling about Foxglove. Its interior was almost too bright and cheery against the encroaching rain clouds. It was a strange manor. Quaint and beautiful, but taller than it was wide and full of twisting turns she watched people disappear into. Most guests were making their way toward the ballroom, and Blythe’s eyes darted from one face to the next, each of them unfamiliar. It was as if she’d stepped off a train into a world where she did not belong, and into a house that had her so paranoid that she kept eyeing the strange portraits, half expecting them to blink back. Never had she felt so disoriented.
She was about to turn and head to the lawn for fresh air, unconvinced that she’d made the right decision by coming here, when a haze of darkness floated past the corner of her vision. Blythe stilled.
“Is that him?” she asked through a feigned smile, not wanting Death to realize that she could see him.
If Aris was faking his surprise, he was a better actor than she gave him credit for. “You truly can see him, then.”
“Did you think I was lying?” Blythe fought the urge to stare down the shadows. “If I couldn’t, then why would I have believed your ridiculous story?”
Aris pressed his lips together, considering. “You shouldn’t be able to see him so easily. I thought it possible that you had heard whispers somewhere along the way, though I suppose nearly dying several times did more of a number on you than I thought.”
“It’s not easy,” Blythe argued. If anything, it was a constant and mounting frustration. She didn’t know whether he had a face, or if he was nothing more than a bundle of shadows. She could see him only as shadowy haze and couldn’t fathom how Signa could have fallen for such a being. He wasn’t truly even a man… was he?
She blushed as soon as she considered the question, deciding it was best if she didn’t give that too much thought.
“What is he doing?” Blythe stood closer to the prince than she had any right to, and if anyone were to see them, they would certainly think Signa’s soiree most scandalous.
“He’s watching us,” Aris whispered. “Hurry and act like I’m seducing
you.”
She smacked his hand away when he teasingly brushed his fingers across hers, hating that she could feel heat rushing to her cheeks.
“Have I ever told you that my favorite color is the very shade of red you turn when you’re flustered?” He was so close that Blythe could feel his breath against her cheeks, and she thought immediately of the intimate moment they’d shared at the Wakefield manor.
“You intend to marry my cousin,” she admonished. “You should mind your tongue.”
Aris took another glass of champagne as it passed, and if Blythe had to guess, she’d say it wasn’t his second. “I have no interest in you, Miss Hawthorne, though getting you riled up isn’t without its appeal. You should see my brother’s face right now.”
Blythe huffed and adjusted her gown, patting down the crinoline. Only when she was certain that she wouldn’t flush again did she turn back to him, her retort ready. But all at once Aris was a prince again, poised with such confidence and pride that he seemed like the tallest man in the room. Blythe realized why a moment later when she saw Eliza and Everett Wakefield enter Foxglove. It took her a moment to notice that Charlotte was at his side, their arms linked. Upon Charlotte’s left hand was a sapphire ring, the sight of which had Blythe’s vision spiraling.
It was official, then. They were engaged.
Charlotte’s smile was as radiant as the moon. Everett’s matched it as he leaned down to whisper something that had her giggling. He looked like the happiest man alive to have earned such a sound, and while Blythe wanted to let herself fill with warm butterflies and celebrate her friend, she wondered whether that ring had come at the cost of a duke’s life, and if her father was going to be the one to pay its price.
Eliza, unlike the others, looked as though she’d been caught out at sea in a storm. She was haggard and weary, and while fashionable in a pleasant blue gown, she seemed too queasy to be here. Her hair was too long, pinned meticulously at the nape of her neck, but as stringy as the kelp Blythe had seen while looking over the precarious cliffside Foxglove sat upon. No cramps were this bad for this long; something was truly wrong.
Only then did Blythe notice her uncle standing behind the Wakefields. His frown was so severe that Blythe’s anxiety spiked as she thought of the
note Signa had left her. As Byron made a beeline for Eliza, so did she. He stilled when he spotted her, then turned on his heel. Whatever he had to say to Eliza, it seemed it was not worth it while in Blythe’s vicinity.
Eliza didn’t appear to have noticed Byron. She was too focused on the space between Blythe and Aris. “Did the two of you arrive together?” Eliza asked without so much as a greeting. No matter how ill she appeared, it was a relief that she was still behaving as herself. She attempted a wobbling curtsy to the prince, and Blythe was clearly not alone in her concern, given that Aris took hold of Eliza’s arm and helped her straighten.
“You don’t look well.” Blythe didn’t mince her words, for vanity would do Eliza no favors. “We should find you a room to lie down in.”
Eliza stood as tall as she could manage. “I assure you that I am fine, Miss Hawthorne. Don’t you dare rob me of this opportunity when the season is nearly at its end.”
Blythe hadn’t expected the spite in her tone and was about to chastise Eliza for her foolery when the shadow trailing them jerked to the side. Blythe tracked it, watching as it slipped up the stairs just as Signa was descending.
Blythe’s knees buckled as though someone had pulled the rug from beneath her. She had half a mind to escape behind Aris and hide among the crowd but, given how Signa missed a step and had to catch herself on the banister when her eyes caught Blythe’s, it seemed she’d lost her opportunity to hide.
With Byron acting suspicious and Eliza looking ready to fall over at any moment, Blythe knew there was no choice but for her to face Signa, needing all the assistance she could get. For the sake of her father she dipped her head, and it was enough of an acknowledgment that Signa’s chest sank with visible relief as she hurried down the remaining stairs.
“Blythe.” Signa’s voice was winded, and her eyes flicked once behind the group, casting a furtive look toward the shadow—toward Death. Blythe tried not to shiver at how distracted Signa seemed. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to come. Yet given my father’s position, I had no choice but to see what you wanted.”
Signa’s throat bobbed as she stepped closer, letting her lips curl into a false smile to greet the crowd around them. “I understand your lack of trust
in me, but I’m glad you came. Rest assured that tonight we will save Elijah.”
That much, at least, was certain. Though as Blythe watched her cousin step away, greeting Everett and Eliza as a shadow trailed her every step, she hoped that Elijah was not the only soul that Blythe would save tonight.
Signa thanked the others for coming all this way, her eyes never leaving Eliza while Blythe stood there, numb. The tapestry warmed her skin, and Blythe absently pressed a hand against it as her eyes found Aris’s. He watched Signa with a predatory gleam, assessing her every movement as if to decide when to strike. The shadow in the corner stood across from him. Blythe tried not to look at Death so obviously, though she was beginning to make out a face in those shadows.
“Why don’t we head up to the ballroom?” Blythe forced her attention away from all of them. “Signa, could you show us the way?”
Signa’s smile wavered, and she looped her arm through Eliza’s.
Blythe tried not to let that bother her. Tried not to stare as she told herself that this wasn’t Signa’s way of saying she’d already found a replacement for Blythe, but because Eliza looked one strong breeze away from a collapse. Still, Blythe longed for the days when she would be the one beside Signa, gossiping and chatting about the most recent book they’d read.
“Is something wrong with Eliza?” Blythe stuck with Charlotte and Everett, speaking too quietly for the others to hear. “She’s remarkably pale.”
“I’m certain there is, but she won’t tell us what.” Everett didn’t bother to conceal his contempt as he glared at Blythe, widening their berth. She was so taken aback by his ferocity that for a second she stopped walking. The Everett she’d known had always been so polite. She liked him a little better with his scowl, though would have preferred that it not be aimed at her.
“I understand if you’re not the biggest fan of my family,” Blythe began, “but my father is innocent. The wrong man is set to hang.” With each word, Blythe searched Everett for any sign of nerves. Any sign that he was worried Blythe suspected his involvement. And yet he only cut her a scathing look, jaw clenched.
“I’ve no idea how to act around you, Miss Hawthorne, for I do not wish anyone else to suffer as I have. I am sorry that you’re to lose your father,
but I cannot be upset by justice.” Everett turned then, hurrying the rest of the way up the steps without any regard for Blythe.
Charlotte stared after him, her lips pressed into a small frown. “We can’t change the verdict, Blythe. Your father was found guilty.”
So ragged was Blythe’s breathing that she’d begun to shake. She folded her hands, pressing them against herself and biting her tongue until she tasted blood. She wanted to tell Charlotte exactly how suspicious she was of each of them but focused instead on the warmth from the tapestry that pulsed against her skin.
She would not give them the time to form clever excuses by giving away her suspicions. Not yet.
Blythe hadn’t noticed they’d arrived inside the ballroom until Charlotte hurried away, leaving her surrounded by strangers in bustling gowns and servants passing gilded trays of dainty sweets and fizzing drinks. Behind her, Eliza was speaking to Signa in low, hushed tones, though her cousin hardly seemed to be paying attention. Signa’s jaw was clenched, and Blythe followed her eyes to one corner of the ballroom, where Death’s shadows were erratic as he moved toward Signa and back again, faster than Blythe’s eyes could keep up with.
Blythe’s heart leaped to her throat when a champagne flute swept from the table beside her and shattered onto the floor. Not even Death had been standing near enough to knock it aside.
Signa’s hands were suddenly gripping her shoulders tight.
“Keep an eye on Eliza,” she said at once. “Promise me you won’t let her out of your sight.”
“What’s going on?” Blythe ducked out of her hold, still looking at the broken glass that was hurriedly swept away. No sooner had the staff finished than another glass fell.
“There’s something I need to take care of. Just keep close to her!”
Before Blythe had the chance to form a single coherent thought, Signa hiked up her skirts and hurried across the ballroom floor.
