TO HER DISMAY, BLYTHE’S ABILITIES DID NOT WORK THE SAME WAY AS her
counterparts’. Where Fate and Death were able to disappear in the blink of an eye and teleport themselves to wherever they fancied, Blythe, it seemed, still had to rely on letters to relay her desperation.
If she was going to have magic, she would have much preferred that it at least behaved as she wanted it to.
After slipping the letter to Signa into the post the morning after her arrival like some magicless peasant, Blythe found her stomach churning at the thought of returning to her suite in Thorn Grove and instead took to wandering the courtyard. The moors were covered in a fine layer of powder, only the most resilient thatches of grass peeking through. The staff flitted in and out of the manor, some of them hanging lavish adornments while others plowed the snow, creating a path for the carriages that would arrive the night of the ball.
Elijah had taken to overseeing the preparations, plucking stubborn petals from mostly barren trees so they would all be uniform and restringing the boughs of holly that hadn’t been hung to his satisfaction. His precision worried Blythe, for she knew her father well enough to understand that he was distracting himself. Likely from whatever was happening with Grey’s.
She knew there would be no prying information from her father, who had preemptively banned all staff from allowing her a horse or taking her into town. Not that that would stop her from trying, considering she had absolutely nothing better to do. That, and the fact that she was in desperate need of a distraction from the way her palms itched to use a magic Blythe
didn’t know the first thing about.
She knew it was her magic that had brought the garden back to life, just as it was her magic responsible for making a mess of Elijah’s office all those months ago. But she didn’t have the faintest understanding of how it worked or all its possibilities.
Squeezing and unsqueezing her palms in an effort to quell the itch, Blythe double-checked that no one was looking before she cut a path to the stables. There’d been a knot in her chest since her arrival to Thorn Grove, but it eased its hold the moment she stepped over the threshold.
“Mr. Crepsley?” she called, searching for the young stable hand she’d made friends with several months prior. He would likely say that friend was a strong word considering she’d practically blackmailed him into helping her before. But that was semantics.
It didn’t seem that the man was there, however, as only a choir of hoofbeats and gentle huffing greeted her. The sounds were like a warm blanket pulled tight around her shoulders, lulling her into comfort. Her mother’s horse, Mitra, was one of the first that Blythe greeted, peeling off her gloves to brush a hand down the length of the mare’s gorgeous golden mane. The unruly Balwin was farther inside, and the rotten creature snatched the gloves from Blythe’s hands when she passed. She had to bop the pesky beast on the nose to get them back.
“William Crepsley, are you in here?” If Blythe could con anyone into allowing her a horse, it’d be him. But even the back of the stable was eerie in its silence, empty aside from a single horse that was smaller than the rest. Blythe’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of the creature.
It was the foal. The one she’d believed Signa resurrected all those months ago. It was bigger now, with no lingering signs of the death it had once succumbed to. Instead, there was a glow to its body, a silver sheen so bright and divine that her eyes stung. Blythe stretched her hand forward, her palms itching so intensely it felt like they were burning.
“Hello.” Blythe’s words were no louder than a breath, but still the horse’s ears twitched back, curious. Its large brown eyes blinked at her, and though Blythe couldn’t be certain, it felt as if the young horse recognized her. It stepped forward, dipping its head to the level of her palm as it closed the space between them.
Blythe’s hand rested on the soft space between its eyes before skimming
down the length of its neck to where its skin warmed and she could feel its heartbeat beneath her fingers. She leaned in, pressing her forehead against the horse’s.
She was the reason it was standing. She could feel that truth in the thrum of the horse’s blood and by the sheen on its skin. It was resplendent, and it was hers.
“You should have known better than to bring it back.”
The voice that sounded from behind her was decidedly not William’s, nor was it any that Blythe recognized. She’d never heard a voice that inspired such terror.
Ten words, and with them Blythe felt her skin peeling from her bones. Tendrils of foreboding snaked down her neck as a cold sharper than even Death’s seized her, plaguing her body with a dread worse than any poison she’d consumed. Bile rose to her throat, and it took everything within her for Blythe to choke it down and turn to seek out the face of a young woman who sat perched atop a hay bale, lounging back on one hand.
She had hair unlike any Blythe had ever seen, an unnatural shade that was as red as the devil himself. Her eye color, too, was inhuman, like dancing twin flames that never strayed from Blythe as she dangled her feet. She wore no apron, nor anything that could have placed her as one of Thorn Grove’s staff. Instead, the cut of her scarlet bodice was scandalously low, the bust adorned with a silk bow as if she herself were a present to all the world. The ivory frills of her long sleeves matched her skirt’s pleated ruffles, cut shorter than any dress Blythe had ever known. It ended well above her ankles, showing a daring slice of her slender leg and a full view of her short black boots.
Blythe found herself voiceless as she stared at the woman. Her skin was youthful, fair with a golden undertone. She didn’t look much older than Blythe, yet there was something ancient in her blazing eyes, shaped like the most delicate teardrops. Something that reminded Blythe immediately of Aris and his brother.
Only this woman felt far more dangerous than either of those two. Her presence was like a fingernail scraping down the length of Blythe’s spine. Like venom slipping through her skin and damning her blood. The hairs along Blythe’s arms stood on end, her body trembling uncontrollably as she tried to move. Tried to run. But she couldn’t take so much as a step.
“E-excuse me?”
The woman considered Blythe’s confusion with a pout. “Well, that’s no fun if you don’t recognize me. I would have thought you’d have your memories back by now.” Her singsong voice was coy and teasing as she stood up from the hay and onto her feet. As the woman drew closer, the horse bucked its legs, whinnying as it pushed itself against the back wall.
“I’m Solanine,” said the woman, paying the horse no mind. “But you can call me Sol.” She snatched Blythe’s hand without waiting for her to close the gap, and it took only a single brush of her skin for Blythe to feel the seams of her world slice open. She saw the collapse of buildings to fire. Heard cries and the gunshots of war and smelled blood and charred bodies rotting the air. She blinked and Elijah was on the floor of Thorn Grove’s ballroom, his throat slit open as rivulets of blood painted the marble scarlet. Signa was slumped beside him, her eyes hollow and her head bowed. Belladonna berries stained her lips, a handful of them rolling from her limp hand.
Blythe stared at them, her breaths coming faster until she could no longer pull air through her lungs. She clenched her throat with both hands, wishing to claw her tongue out of her mouth as it swelled up, festering, making every thin breath so painful that she wished to fall over and let Death claim her if only to stop the ache before it grew worse.
She was back in the stables the moment her nails brushed her tongue. Relief flooded her as the dead bodies in her mind’s eye disappeared, but it was short-lived as she stumbled to her knees, losing the contents of her stomach as tears wet her cheeks.
“My apologies,” Solanine mocked. “I should have warned you about that. I keep forgetting that you’re the new girl.”
It didn’t matter who this woman was; she had all Death’s fright and every bit of Fate’s flare packed into a single lithe body, and in her presence Blythe felt only foreboding. Like every dream she’d ever held was burning away, pointless to pursue. That everyone she’d ever loved was destined to die, so why did any of it matter? Why did life matter?
“Just how many of you are there?” Blythe dug her fingers into the stall door and dragged herself to her feet, struggling with every inch.
“You speak as though you’re different from the rest of us.” Solanine hummed as she looped a slow half-circle around Blythe, who stood with her
back pressed against the stall gate and a horse bucking its protest behind her. Blythe didn’t blame the creature. If she could manage to get her hands on the latch, she’d open it just to let the poor thing run as far away as it could get.
“How do you know who I am?” Blythe demanded, praying she wouldn’t stammer.
“Isn’t it obvious? You summoned me.” Solanine sported her cruelty with a smile. “Part of my job is keeping those like us in line, and you’ve broken the rules, little lamb. So here I am.”
“I didn’t summon anyone,” Blythe gritted out, wishing she could succumb to the weakness in her knees and sit. But in this woman’s presence, she knew that was as good as a death sentence.
She focused instead on her palms, on the itch beneath their surface and the magic that seemed to await her summons. Whatever Solanine’s plans were, Blythe had no intention of going down without a fight.
“If you believe that, then you must not understand that magic of yours.” She reached forward to snatch Blythe’s wrist, and when she sliced a bloodred nail against it, Blythe’s skin erupted into thorns.
Solanine hissed as she yanked herself away, blood as black as tar sliding from her palm and down her wrist. Blythe, however, didn’t have so much as a mark on her.
“So the new girl bites.” Her blazing eyes fell to Blythe’s unmarked arm, and in her mind’s eye Blythe saw the stables collapsing. Saw her mother’s horse with its neck twisted and the young foal on top of her, both of them crushed by the rubble. But while the stables seemed to tremble in reality, they didn’t come down. A warm, placid heat stirred in Blythe’s belly, and she managed to stand taller before the woman, the magic within her ready to heed her call.
Solanine took one look at the vines now winding around Blythe’s heels and scoffed. “Am I meant to be threatened by a magic you clearly have no idea how to wield?”
Blythe fought not to let her fear show, but waves of sorrow pressed upon her as the woman filled her head with thoughts of destruction. Of the beautiful world around her eradicated, turned to nothing more than dust and rubble. Blythe’s magic faltered as Solanine sauntered toward her, the heels of her boots clacking against the floor.
“Such a shame,” the woman whispered as she took Blythe’s cheeks in her hands. “Though I suppose this body of yours is quite frail, isn’t it? Let’s hope your next life will be kinder.”
When Solanine’s nails pressed to her throat, Blythe knew that she was done for. She only hoped that someone other than Elijah would find her body. That he would be spared the most gruesome details of her death. That time would heal him and he would not be forever alone or succumb to his grief.
She shut her eyes, waiting for Death, but the reaper never came.
The moment Solanine drew blood, she dropped her hold on Blythe. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she stared down at the trail of it upon her finger and then up at Blythe’s face.
“Rima?” Never would Blythe have expected the soft crack of Solanine’s voice. She lifted her finger to her lips, tongue sliding along the blood without ever dropping Blythe’s gaze. “You have her blood.”
It took Blythe a long moment to recognize that the name belonged to Signa’s mother. “How do you know Rima?”
Solanine dropped her hand. Out of all the blasted powers she could have, Blythe would have given anything in that moment to be able to read minds. The look in the woman’s eyes was indecipherable, a mix of longing and resentment. Sorrow, perhaps.
“I suppose you are the right age… you’re the baby, aren’t you?” Solanine countered. A question for a question. “The one she would flaunt to anyone who gave her the time.” She tilted her head, curious, but Blythe ducked away, not letting this woman get a closer look at her eyes.
Signa. She thought that Blythe was Signa. And for now, Blythe didn’t think it wise to clarify.
“You didn’t answer me.” Blythe spoke each word slowly, leaning into her fear and giving herself an excuse to keep her eyes low. “How do you know who Rima is?”
Solanine’s response was not a whisper. It held no embarrassment, no fear. Just pure stated fact as she told Blythe, “I know Rima because I’m the one who killed her.”
Blythe felt that truth like a bolt of lightning down her spine. Her chest squeezed, but there was no time to process the truth of those words or that Solanine was stepping back toward the hay bales. She looked angry to do it.
Like she was warring with the desire to finish what she started and choke the life out of Blythe, bringing the stables down around her. But once Solanine took a seat, she didn’t get back up.
“You hardly look a thing like her.” The woman scrunched her nose in distaste. “A similar mouth, perhaps. And clearly the same penchant for inspiring chaos, if you’re summoning me. I should have known that Rima’s child would be special. Oh, she would have died happy to discover what you became. If only she was alive to find out.”
Blythe wanted to condemn how lightly Solanine spoke of Rima’s death, as though it was simply something that had happened and was not part of a disaster caused by her hand. But Blythe spoke nothing of her true identity, or corrected that Rima was merely her aunt. Something told her that this connection to Rima was the only thing keeping her alive. “I didn’t summon
—”
“You did.” Solanine sighed, exasperated. “You have upended the world’s balance, but as you are of Rima’s blood, I will offer you a chance to fix your mess, just as I offered her.”
Blythe hadn’t the faintest clue what mess was hers to fix, and Solanine didn’t seem the type to provide that information willingly. She ground her teeth. “And what happens if I fail?”
Images of fallen bodies filled her mind. She saw her father not bleeding from his throat this time, but stabbed in the stomach over and over again. Flashes of his corpse being tossed to sea, swelling in the bottom of the ocean. Thorn Grove falling to ruin from his absence, several maids forced to life on the streets after failed efforts at finding employment.
“Chaos, little lamb.” Solanine’s eyes gleamed. “Absolute chaos.” She plucked a piece of straw from beneath her, twirling it between her fingertips. Blythe couldn’t look away from the smoke that wisped up, there one second and then gone as the straw flared into a fire, then to ash.
“Best of luck to you making things right.” Solanine’s scorching eyes lifted to Blythe’s. “I imagine I’ll be seeing you again very soon.”
 |
Blythe did not linger in the stables. The moment Solanine disappeared— because of course she had teleportation abilities—so did Blythe, grabbing her skirts and racing back to the safety of…
Well, she didn’t know anymore. Thorn Grove was no longer the sanctuary it had once been, nor was it the haven Blythe had built in her head. To her surprise, the longer Blythe was away from Wisteria, the more homesick she became for a place she hadn’t realized felt like home.
In that moment, Blythe would have given anything to speak with Aris. Either for him to tell her just who Solanine was and what problem needed solving to be rid of her, or to fall into the comfort of his conversation and seek distraction among their bickering. She’d take either of the options, happily. But for Aris to help her, he’d have to know the truth about who Blythe really was—a secret she’d hardly accepted herself.
“Done making decisions for me already?” Blythe glared down at her left hand, waiting for the band of light to pulse. Willing it to send her back to Wisteria. But the wretched thing remained still, cold, and entirely unhelpful. If not for the faintest glow of light on her finger, she wouldn’t even know it still existed.
All along, Blythe had felt like the magic was leading her closer to Aris. That it was the representation of their bond to each other, magicked to life. So why was it so still now? Had it only wanted her to uncover the truth of who she was? To learn that her connection with Aris went much deeper than she could have fathomed, just to disappear once it put her into a spiral?
“You blasted thing,” she whispered at the ring and whatever magic was at play within it. “I despise you.”
How much easier it would have been if Aris could learn the truth in some other way. Then she wouldn’t foolishly spend hours thinking over all the possibilities of what might happen once she told him, or face his disappointment when he discovered that after centuries of searching for his wife, Blythe was who he’d been waiting for.
As much as Aris irked her, he was also magnetic. For every bit of ego he imbued, there was also charm and immense passion. Never had Blythe met someone with such an appetite for traversing the world, or with such fascinating creativity. She was drawn to it, more attracted than she cared to acknowledge.
Whether he felt the same about her, however…
If anything could be gathered from his reaction to their kiss, it was that Aris wanted nothing to do with her. Blythe couldn’t accept that fact changing simply because he knew the truth of her identity. She had no desire for Aris to suddenly alter his opinions over memories she was only beginning to remember, or because he believed her to be someone she simply wasn’t. Did she have Life’s powers? Yes. And perhaps she was reincarnated, but that didn’t mean that she and Mila would ever be the same person.
Blythe didn’t want him to want Mila. She wanted him to want her, which was horrible and embarrassing and a truth that was consuming her thoughts. But Aris had been clear about his feelings, which meant that there was no world in which Blythe could tell him the truth. At least not yet.
For now, she needed to shift her focus to better understanding her magic and figuring out who she was and what Solanine expected her to fix.
She returned to the manor to find it far rowdier than when she’d left. Nervous murmurs echoed across the entryway, and Blythe saw that the staff had ceased their decorating and were piled near the doors to the kitchen. She hurried forward, squeezing between two of the maids to sneak a look inside.
At first, she saw nothing other than Elijah prowling, opening every cupboard in search of something.
“Father?” Blythe tried to decipher what he might be looking for. “Has something happened?” While nothing seemed out of place, the tension was palpable.
Elijah tensed at the sound of his daughter’s voice and whipped his head to face her. “Go to your room. Keep it locked until I come up—”
“What’s going on?” She gripped the edge of the door, refusing to take so much as a step until she had answers.
“You will be the death of me one day, Blythe, I swear it.” He smoothed his thumb and forefinger over his brows, exasperated. “Some of the staff have reported seeing a strange figure disappear into the kitchen.”
“A figure?” Blythe’s heart stuttered. “What did they look like?”
It was one of the maids who answered. “They were tall,” she said, just as another chimed in, “With hair as red as blood. Never seen a thing like it.”
“No one got a good look,” Elijah said firmly. “It could be nothing, but until we have more information, I’d prefer you stay safe in your room.”
The last thing Blythe wanted was to leave, especially knowing that Solanine’s hair matched the description. She was about to argue for the right to stay near Elijah and assist with the investigation when the front doors flew open behind the group, and Warwick burst inside. Blythe glimpsed Mitra outside, whinnying and bucking. William Crepsley was holding her tight by the bridle, trying to calm the mare. She saw them only briefly before the doors slammed shut.
“Mr. Hawthorne!” Warwick exclaimed, his face glistening with sweat as he pushed his way through. “Someone has broken into the stables.”
Blythe’s blood ran cold. “They couldn’t have. I was just there!”
“Then we should count ourselves lucky that you missed them,” Warwick said. “Someone tried to take Mitra. Mr. Crepsley found her running back…”
from the moors, half saddled and looking like she’d seen a ghost.”
Blythe pressed a hand to her throat, her skin clammy. She didn’t like this, not one bit.
Solanine had promised chaos. And chaos, it seemed, started now.
