MORNING CAME TOO QUICKLY. SIGNA WATCHED AS DAWN CREPT through her

curtains, slices of dusky orange cutting across the room.

She was wound in Death’s arms, head against his chest and entirely at home in the cocoon of sheets they’d drawn over them. She and Death kept to their silence, neither daring to shatter the peaceful lie they’d built around themselves. Yet as birds sang and the sunlight had them burrowing deeper into the sheets to shield their eyes, Signa knew there was no other choice. If they didn’t get up, Fate would find them soon enough. She pressed kisses down the length of Death’s neck and chest before she forced herself from him to get dressed.

Perhaps it was foolish of her, but the dress she grabbed from the armoire was stark black mourning wear, and neither she nor Death made any comment of it as she slipped it over her body.

Shadows slid up Death’s neck as he stood, shrouding himself in a mantle of darkness. He brushed a finger down Signa’s neck as she pinned her hair up, then let his hand slip to her waist.

“There is another option.” His voice was as sweet as ambrosia, and so divine that all Signa wanted was to lose herself within it. She didn’t want to hope, fearing she would only be disappointed. And yet she peered up at him, praying for words that could save them.

Death curled his hand around her waist, his hips pressed against her low back as he drew her close. “We could find a way to kill my brother.”

She should have known it was a fool’s hope.

“And what of Elijah?” she asked, not unkindly. “We leave him to hang?” “We can find someone else to frame—”

“And doom another?” It would be a lie to say that she hadn’t considered it, but… No. There was a way out of this that would affect no one but her and Death. She’d brought enough people into her mess. “You and I are not confined to the rules of time, Death, and Fate is too vain a man to be bound to someone who despises him.” It didn’t matter what memories returned to her; Fate would always be the villain who had forced her hand.

“Is Blythe truly worth such a sacrifice?” Death countered. “Fate is as stubborn as he is vain. He will do anything to spite me, Signa. You cannot count on him to end your bargain so easily.”

Despite its bluntness, the question was fair. In the grand scheme, Signa hadn’t known the Hawthornes long. And yet she felt bound to them, forever woven into the folds of this family that had inherited her. The last thing she wanted was to spend her years seeing Blythe’s fire snuffed out, or to know that she could have prevented Elijah’s death when he was only just beginning to truly live.

The Hawthornes were her family, and with everything in her, Signa loved them. And so she took Death’s hand in hers, brushing her thumb across his skin as she answered, “I wish that she wasn’t. Truly I do, because I know what I’m losing and that I’ll spend every moment away from you wishing that it didn’t have to be this way. But we will have our time, and when we do I swear that I will never leave your side again.

“My love for you is not confined to time, nor fate,” she continued. “It is a love that I will hold with me for an eternity, which is why I am not afraid. I swear to you that I will always be yours, even when I am not.”

Death’s reflection grew hazy upon the mirror, wisps of shadows smearing the glass. “You are a fool to think that I could so easily let you go.” He clenched his jaw tight, curling a finger around the loose baby hairs at her neck. He slid that same finger down her arm until his fingers laced through hers. Death’s expression had hardened, a new resolve settling over him as he ushered her toward the door. “Come, Little Bird. It’s time for us to visit my brother one last time.”

Though she knew nothing good could come of it, there was little choice but to let Death lead the way.

Foxglove was still in disarray from the ball the night prior, champagne flutes abandoned on the mahogany banister and rugs strewn about, their edges folded over. She and her staff had put so much into Foxglove this past

month, and for what? To let some strangers disrespect her home just so she could lose it? Signa gritted her teeth at the thought.

Everything within her hardened at the sight of Fate waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t once acknowledge his brother’s presence even as Death’s rage turned the floor to sleet. “It’s past dawn,” was all Fate said, his face severe as he took in her choice of dress. “You’re late.”

Death answered before she could. “We were busy.”

Signa gave his hand a squeeze of reproach, but holding back Death was no better than fighting a storm. The clouds darkened with each step they took toward the parlor, and when they came close enough to see the tapestry laid out on the table, Signa knew that the best thing she could do was to release her hold on the reaper.

Fate was ready, a golden light emitting from his skin as Death threw him against the wall. The light cleaved Death’s shadows as Fate matched his brother and took him by the throat.

“I gave you your night.” Though Fate spoke with a remarkable calm, every word was lethal. “Signa and I made a blood oath, brother, and you’ve gotten more from it than you deserve.”

The stairs creaked behind them, and Signa stilled when she caught sight of Blythe peeking around the corner, still dressed in her evening wear from the prior night. The sight of her had Signa’s throat swelling. She was about to turn away in the hope that her cousin would return to her room when Signa saw that Blythe’s eyes were bloodshot. Blythe hurried down the stairs before Signa could stop her and grabbed hold of her cousin’s hands.

“I’m so sorry,” Blythe whispered at once, mindful of her uncle and the Wakefields still sleeping upstairs. “I never should have put this on you. I never should have let Aris give me that tapestry.” She turned to glare at the thing, breathing so hard that Signa tightened her grip to steady her.

“It’s all right,” Signa said, and she meant it. For the Hawthornes, this was a sacrifice worth making.

Fate had taken care with the tapestry, laying parchment paper beneath the threads to catch her blood. Signa stilled at the sight of a small switchblade that rested beside it, able to smell the alcohol that he’d used to clean it.

Death and Fate still had each other by the throat, and Signa knew there was no time to wait. If she hurried, Death wouldn’t be able to stop her. He

wouldn’t have to watch.

“I need you to know that I only ever wanted what was best for your family.” Signa pushed the words out, forcing herself to command Blythe’s attention. “I never wanted to hurt Percy. I loved him, Blythe, I truly did. I wanted him to be my family, too.”

Blythe held Signa tighter as she asked, “Then why did you do it?”

Signa forced herself to smile as she let Blythe’s hand slip from hers. “Because you deserved to live. You deserve the world, Blythe, and I hope that you take it.” Plain and simple, that was the truth. Signa turned before she could see Blythe’s eyes swell with tears, crossing to the table to take hold of the switchblade. It was smooth and cold beneath her hands, and she flipped it open with a shudder, remembering the night of Percy’s death and that he’d tried to attack her with a blade just like this one.

She clasped the knife tight in her hands, shaking the memory from her mind. From somewhere behind her, the men seemed to notice her new position. Death yelled something inaudible as he hurried toward her, his words drowned out by the rushing of her blood as she lifted the sharpest point of the blade to her finger and pricked the skin.

The world fell silent as the blood welled up, and all Signa could think about was how odd it was that one drop could change everything. One drop, and her life would be forever changed.

Yet change, it seemed, was not in her cards that day.

Signa fell to the floor, the wind knocked from her lungs and her blood smearing the wood as someone threw her aside. Blythe stood over her, wild-eyed as she looked not at Signa but at the tapestry in front of her. Blythe ripped it from the table, clutching it to her chest.

“Miss Hawthorne.” Fate did not speak loudly, but with a grave severity a thousand times more threatening as he took a step forward and told Blythe, “I need you to put that down.”

Never could Signa have imagined Blythe fearless enough to turn her simmering eyes toward Fate. “No.”

Signa fisted the switchblade tight, keeping it ready in case he dared to make a move against her cousin. Unlike Death, Fate was not made up of shadows but had a human body that needed to eat and breathe. Perhaps he would not be so immune to a blade as Death was.

“Put that down,” Fate repeated, spitting the words through his teeth.

“There is an oath in place.”

“You don’t need to remind me of the oath, Aris. I was there when you made it.” Blythe didn’t look away from Fate as she ran her finger down the length of the tapestry’s threads. Fate froze midstep.

“Until the moment Signa pours her blood upon the tapestry and willingly binds herself to you, you will allow her not only to see Death, but to touch him without harm,” Blythe spoke the words slowly as she raised the tapestry to eye level. “You also promised to free my father the moment an oath is made and you have yourself a bride. Did I get it all right?”

“You did,” he agreed. “Now put the tapestry down and we’ll still have our deal.”

Signa knew she should move. Knew she should rip the tapestry from Blythe’s hands and spare her cousin from any more of Fate’s threats. Yet there was an electricity in the air that kept Signa rooted to the floor, clutching the knife. She whipped her head to Death, only to find that he was inching toward her, careful not to draw his brother’s attention.

Don’t move, he whispered, the words inside her mind.

Even Fate was hesitant with the steps he drew toward Blythe. For each one he took forward, she stepped back toward the roaring flames in the hearth.

“You used me,” Blythe began. “You made me believe the worst of my cousin. But I know the truth now, Aris, and I could never live with myself if I let her make this deal.”

“Miss Hawthorne,” Fate seethed, “if you take one more step—”

“Then you’ll what?” Blythe held the tapestry out, nearly letting the flames taste the fabric. “What will you do to me, Aris? As clever as you are, I expected more from you.”

Fate’s chest heaved with slow, measured breaths as he looked between her and the fire. It was clear he was debating making a dive for the tapestry. Anytime he drew a breath closer, however, Blythe lowered it toward the flames until Fate backed away, tearing his hands through his hair in frustration.

“Come now,” she urged, as merciless as Signa had ever seen. “Aren’t you going to ask me why I expected more?”

Exasperated as he was, Fate had no choice but to play along. “Why, Miss Hawthorne?” If words could kill, his would have severed her five

times over. “Why did you expect more from me?”

Blythe gave no warning as she sliced her palm across the iron poker near the hearth and turned to stare Fate dead in the eyes. “Because you never specified who had to be your bride.”

Blythe smiled as she spilled her blood upon the tapestry’s golden threads.