SIGNA SEARCHED FOR DEATH EVERYWHERE. SOMETIMES, WHEN THE
temperature plummeted or she felt the caress of a particularly gentle breeze across her cheek, she would imagine that he was there beside her. She took her morning walks when the springtime sky was still a dreary gray and the lawn sparkled with the morning dew, ensuring she was alone as she spoke to a man who she couldn’t be certain was even there, giving him the updates of her investigation.
Nearly a week had passed since the day Elijah had been taken. Nearly a week of tailing Byron as he puttered around Thorn Grove, busying himself with hiring staff and assigning duties, inspecting all work with a critical eye. With the deal for Grey’s Gentleman’s Club having fallen through, he often took to Elijah’s study from sunrise to sunset to go over ledgers and paperwork.
There was little else Signa could do while he was in there, and thus she took to spending many afternoons pricking a needle into her finger, watching the blood swell and then stop seconds later without any sickness. Her powers still worked; it seemed it was only when she crossed the veil and had full access to them that she took ill. Though she knew little of Fate’s abilities, she guessed this situation was somehow his doing. If she didn’t already have enough of a reason to want to beat him at his own game, she certainly did now.
Blythe, too, had put on her detective’s cap, and unlike Signa, she was less distracted with worries of Fate and the image of Elijah hunched and beaten in his cell. However, she also didn’t have all the information, and Signa had no idea how to broach that conversation. Good morning, Blythe. I
am a grim reaper who used my powers to visit your father in his cell. He suggested that I investigate your uncle. Would you like to join me in my continued mission of tearing your family apart?
No. If it meant sparing Blythe the pain of such knowledge, Signa would bear the burden of it forever. Just as she intended to do with the truth about Percy.
Blythe spent her mornings and afternoons in the library, reading about poisons and poring over whatever news clippings she could find for murders involving cyanide. She’d spent the first few evenings since Elijah was imprisoned at the dinner table, sharing the details of her findings with whoever would listen. Once Byron realized that she had no intention of discussing more dinner-friendly topics, he instructed the two girls to take their suppers elsewhere so he could have some peace, which meant that evenings quickly turned into Signa cutting into a piece of roast as Blythe discussed—in extraordinary detail—the latest murder she’d read about.
By the time Fate’s soiree rolled around—or rather Prince Aris’s soiree, as that was the name he’d been going by—the day felt as much of a mental reprieve as it did a chance to confront the man face-to-face. Every time Signa read the name and saw those gilded letters, another crinkle marred the invitation.
Elaine had helped Signa ready herself that afternoon, practically glowing as she laced her into a gorgeous satin gown the color of ripe autumn moss and adorned with golden embroidery. The dress was perhaps a few shades too dark for both this year’s style and the season, yet Signa loved the way it reflected back at her in the mirror. It felt rich against her skin and fit her like a glove—tight around the waist and narrowly avoiding a scandal at the bust. As she was unmarried, her hair had been pulled back from her face, twisted and pinned into elegant curls. She loosened a few of them as she inspected herself, wishing that Death would be there to see her. Maybe he would be. Maybe he was already here and trying to warn her not to attend the soiree; with their communication halted, it wasn’t as if she’d know.
“If you don’t have a hundred handsome men asking for your hand by the season’s end, then surely there is no hope for any of us.” Elaine lowered her hands to her hips as she looked Signa over. She was the single rose among the aptly named Thorn Grove these days, and Signa wondered if perhaps it
was for her and Blythe’s benefit that Elaine’s cheeks were so rosy and her smile so bright, to make up for the foulness that plagued the manor. But the more time that passed, the more genuine it seemed. When Signa had first met Elaine, the young woman had been quiet and reserved. Now she hummed when she strolled the halls and shared stories of happy news whenever she delivered tea. Though her cheerfulness was sometimes odd, such grim circumstances made it that much more appreciated.
As for the comment about the men… Signa smoothed out her long white kid gloves, never having realized they could be so interesting. Her wealth was no secret, and with the Hawthornes feeding her as well as they had been, Signa had filled out in a lovely way. Her skin was suppler than when she’d first arrived at the manor, and though there were some who still considered her eyes with great skepticism—for one was a winter’s blue and the other a melted gold—Signa knew she was pretty enough to draw interest. However, knowing that she couldn’t summon Death whenever she wanted had her yearning for him even more, and seeking the attention of others less than ever.
“Oh, don’t make such a face,” Elaine chided, looking at Signa’s reflection in the mirror in front of them. “If this is about Mr. Everett Wakefield, even I know he’s keen on you. I’m certain that once Mr. Hawthorne is proved innocent, all will be well. Though, if you ask me, I say why not go for the prince, instead? Especially if he’s handsome.”
Signa didn’t care one bit for the playfulness of Elaine’s voice or the way she wagged her brows. More than anything, though, she hated the suggestion that a man as despicable as Fate could ever be thought of as handsome. He was ghastlier than anyone she’d ever laid eyes on—which was saying a lot, considering she had grown up seeing all sorts of strange spirits with parts of their bodies stabbed or rotted or blown away in old wars.
Signa didn’t have the heart to shoo Elaine away when her lady’s maid pinched some color into her cheeks and ushered her out the door. “You best be on your way, miss. Your uncle will be meeting you in the carriage.”
While the idea of being escorted by Byron for an entire evening once would have stalled Signa’s steps, she was eager to get him out of Thorn Grove and away from Elijah’s study. Fate wasn’t the only one to be wary of; she needed to see how Byron behaved in the public eye. Whom would
he approach or find himself in conversation with? What might his mannerisms be? Whatever he did, she’d be there to track his every move.
Skirts in one hand, Signa held the other above her eyes, blocking out the beaming sunlight as she hurried to a polished carriage led by two stallions with slick black coats and thick muscle. The wiry groom who opened the door was decidedly not Death’s human charade, Sylas Thorly, and Signa felt a little pang in her chest as the young man helped her up.
To Signa’s surprise, it wasn’t Byron who waited for her inside.
“Hello, cousin!” Blythe’s voice was more cheerful than it had any right to be, and Signa fixed her with the most vicious glare to signal as much. “Oh, don’t give me that look. Surely, you knew I was going to come.”
“I expected you would consider it, though I had hoped you’d see reason.” Signa halted at the door, debating the merits of dragging Blythe out by the skirts when the driver cleared his throat.
“Hurry and take your seat,” Blythe scolded. “We’re already late.” She wore a shade of blue so pale it could almost pass for white and kept her hair as loose as possible while still maintaining societal rules. There was a healthy flush to her cheeks, and Signa hated that there was such a glimmer of determination in her eyes, for she had no idea how she might possibly manage to convince Blythe to stay home.
“Where is Byron?” Signa asked.
“He’ll follow us in the next carriage,” Blythe answered. “With our gowns, there wouldn’t have been room for him to stretch his legs.”
Again, the driver cleared his throat. Recognizing that she’d lost this round, Signa sighed and slid onto the velvet seat across from Blythe. Her cousin folded her hands on her lap and inspected the sapphire jewel upon her gloved finger, not meeting Signa’s eyes.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
“Of course I should have.” Blythe was dismissive, as though that fact was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look at me. I couldn’t let this dress go to waste.”
“I’m being serious, Blythe—”
“So am I.” Only then did Blythe look up with a dark severity in her icy eyes. “My father’s life is at stake. I do not care if the prince is sixty years old or the most boorish man that has ever walked this earth. There is power to being a pretty girl in a pretty dress, and if I have any chance of getting
him on our side, I intend to do so. Now, will you help me or not?” She stretched out a hand, and—against her better judgment—Signa let her fingers slip through Blythe’s.
Even through the gloves Signa could feel every bone in Blythe’s fingers. She was still so thin; still so frail. Though Blythe tried not to show it, she was clearly still recovering, and the last thing in the world that Signa wanted was for her to get sucked into Fate’s games any more than the Hawthorne family had already been.
“I will always help you.” Signa squeezed Blythe’s hand in both of her own. “But, given the current state of the Hawthornes and that it’s my name on the invitation, perhaps it would be prudent if I spoke to the prince first.”
“Perhaps.” Blythe shrugged her delicate shoulders. “Though Uncle says the invitation was likely for the family. I understand your concern, but I’ve been to hell and back in this past year. I believed that I would never again attend a ball, let alone ride in another carriage. Yet here I am. A prince does not frighten me, cousin. Especially not one who doesn’t even have the decency to properly invite me to his soiree.”
Signa had little choice but to lean back in her seat and settle her hands into her lap. How much simpler it would have been if only Blythe knew the truth. Step-by-step, she was veering closer to the web that Fate had spun for them. But if Blythe wouldn’t protect herself, then so be it. Signa would work twice as hard to keep the Hawthornes safe, and away from his ensnarement.
No matter what happened that evening, she would not allow Fate to win.
