THOUGHTS OF SOLANINE PLAGUED BLYTHE THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT. She
wasn’t safe even in her dreams, where she watched as everyone she loved fell, their corpses bleeding or bloated or sliced into pieces and scattered on the ground. She tossed and turned for hours, jolting awake with the lone thought that this woman was out there, waiting for something. Wanting for something.
The memory of her voice had Blythe’s body curling in on itself, the hairs of her neck raised and alert. And if a simple memory could do that to her—to someone who knew that the paranormal was real and who apparently was one of these mythical deities herself—she feared what Solanine would do to Elijah. Blythe needed to cut the head off this snake before it could seep any more venom.
But to do that, she needed her cousin.
When the sun rose on Christmas morning, Elijah appeared at her door with a lovely silk gown of powder blue with dropped sleeves and silver tulle along the skirt that looked iridescent when twirled about. She slipped into it in the late afternoon, silent and mulling about her own thoughts as she let one of the staff help ready her for the ball. No longer unmarried, she wore her pale blond hair down and cleaned her wedding ring until it sparkled, the golden snake once again drawing her thoughts back to Aris. She knew he, too, could likely help her. But it was Signa who had saved Blythe’s life once, and Signa who had been willing to give up everything and everyone she loved to save Blythe a second time. And so, more than Aris, it was her cousin’s help that she sought.
At least, this was the excuse Blythe gave herself, as well as that she now knew one small truth of what had happened the night of Rima Farrow’s death. Though how to break that news to Signa, she wasn’t sure.
“Has my cousin arrived?” Blythe asked one of the older maids, having taken to pacing and fretting about, much to the annoyance of several of the staff who were forced to work around her, lighting the candles and finalizing last-minute decor.
“Not yet, Your Highness.”
Blythe groaned and continued her pacing. It wasn’t that she wanted to be front and center, the first person any arriving guest would see. Especially not when she knew how much fun high society would have with their musings and theorizing about her missing husband. It was the very thing she’d told Aris she despised, but she couldn’t worry about her family’s reputation taking the hit now. With Solanine’s threat looming, Blythe needed to be there the moment Signa arrived.
Unfortunately, thirty minutes into the party and her cousin was still nowhere to be found. Blythe stared out the frosted window, fretting at her gloves. The skin beneath them was itching something fierce, and it was only when she ripped one off that she realized why—there were no longer faint blue veins on her wrist. Roots stretched beneath Blythe’s skin, slipping up her palms, where ivy was beginning to sprout.
Blythe swallowed her scream as she shoved the glove back on.
“When you see Miss Farrow, send her to me immediately!” Blythe demanded before she threw open the parlor. She slammed the door shut as she stumbled into a chair and tore off her gloves. Her arm was worsening by the second, tiny thorns piercing through her skin. They were smaller than the ones she’d produced the day prior against Solanine, but this time Blythe had no control over them.
She couldn’t make sense of time or thoughts, or anything other than an overwhelming need to escape. To return to her suite, or maybe to the garden. She could bury herself there. Let her body take root and become one with the earth so that she might never have to deal with whatever was happening to her or the threat on the lives of those she loved.
Just when she thought she could bear no more, the door creaked open and a trembling voice called out, “Blythe? What’s going on?”
Blythe’s entire body was covered in ivy when she turned toward her
cousin. Roots and vines snaked through her hair, consuming her, and Signa covered her mouth at the sight. She ran to Blythe, dropping to her knees beside her.
“Breathe!” Signa grabbed Blythe by the shoulders, wincing as the thorns drew blood that blossomed through her white gloves. The sight of it had anxious laughter bubbling in Blythe’s throat. What was it that Aris had called her? A sweetbrier, full of thorns in his side? If only he could see how right he was. Or maybe she was becoming one with the aptly named Thorn Grove.
She laughed again at the thought, doubled over and delirious.
Undeterred, Signa took Blythe by the chin. “Get a hold of yourself and breathe before you turn this place into a terrarium!”
Blythe startled when Signa squeezed, forcing her to draw a trembling breath, then a second.
“Very good,” Signa soothed after several long minutes of this. She dropped her hold on Blythe’s chin and instead threaded their fingers together. She held close even as ivy swept up her wrists and along her forearms, ensnaring her. “Shut your eyes and picture in your mind that you are wholly yourself,” her cousin whispered, a portrait of calm. “No ivy. No flora. Just Blythe, bare skinned and at ease.”
There was little to do but obey, though it was no easy feat. One second Blythe imagined herself bare skinned, only for her mind to betray her a moment later with thoughts of the garden and all the strange things that could blossom upon her skin. She was glad that her eyes were shut so she didn’t have to see what wild creations she must have conjured when Signa winced and said more urgently, “Bare skinned, Blythe! Imagine that we are in the snow. Do you remember when we made snow angels all those months ago? You were in a coat, and there was nothing green as far as the eye could see. Can you picture that day?”
Blythe tried her hardest, casting out thoughts of the garden in favor of the winter. She thought not of the snow angels but of her time in Brude. Of the frosted air that hunted any spare inch of skin it could find. Of sledding with Aris and navigating the canals, worlds away from her mother’s garden. “You’re doing amazing,” whispered Signa after a good while. “You can
open your eyes.”
Blythe opened them in time to see the last of the ivy disappearing into
her palms. No longer was there moss sprouting beneath her fingernails, and when she raked her hands over her head, she found only hair. Only after triple-checking herself was Blythe able to sob her relief.
“You knew.” She made no effort to stop the accusation from tumbling out of her. “You knew what I was, didn’t you? Who I was. That’s what you wanted to tell me.”
Signa took her by the left wrist and extended Blythe’s hand so that it was before her, the band of light shimmering on her ring finger. “I’d have told you if I was able, Blythe. I swear that I tried. You saw what happened back in Fiore. I tried writing you letters after that, but the ink would disappear from the page before I could send it. I never wanted to lie to you, not again.”
Blythe gritted her teeth, eyes blurring with tears as she tore her hand away from Signa. “Have you known all this time? Were you only pretending to be the one using my powers?”
“Of course not!” This was spoken with such resoluteness that Blythe had no choice but to believe her cousin. “For the longest time I truly believed it was me. I felt those powers every time you used them, and they always felt wrong. Too hot and so painful that it made me sick. I had no idea of the truth until the day you poured your blood onto that tapestry and struck a deal with Fate.”
Signa was suddenly crouched before her, taking both of Blythe’s hands tight in hers. “I am glad that I can speak freely now, if only to tell you that I will always be on your side. I tried everything I could think of to tell you, but it seems the magic had other plans.”
It was too much. The magic, Aris, Solanine and her connection to Rima, the truth of who Blythe was… all of it was too much.
“There’s something I need to tell you, too,” Blythe whispered, her voice cracking. Signa only shook her head.
“Later,” she whispered. “Perhaps when doing so will not turn your body to thorns that will impale us all.”
Words about Rima sat at the top of her tongue, and though Blythe desperately wanted to say them aloud, she knew that Signa was right. It was too big of a truth, and Blythe was in no position to delicately break the news to her cousin. She fell forward, letting Signa pull her into an embrace as Blythe cried into her cousin’s chest.
She had no idea how long they remained like that, crumpled on the floor with Signa smoothing a reassuring hand down Blythe’s hair. Eventually, though, as the hour grew later and the volume within Thorn Grove rose, Signa whispered, “Would a gift make you feel better?”
Perhaps it was silly that those were the words that roused her, but Blythe leaned up with a tired sniffle and whispered, “It probably won’t make me feel worse.”
Signa smiled, rising to her feet and disappearing for a brief moment before she returned with a glittering silver box.
“Last year you gave me something that meant more to me than you probably ever realized,” Signa said as she set the box upon Blythe’s lap. “This year, I wanted to return the favor.”
Exhausted as she was, there was always energy for presents, and Blythe desperately wanted the distraction. She wasted no time tearing into the pretty parchment. Inside glistened a mask—one made of petals both as white as the snow and as blue as a summer sky. It was unlike any she’d seen, though it wasn’t the flowers that made the mask unique. It was the fact that it didn’t just cover her eyes, but had gilded branches that stretched past her temples and around her head like a circlet. It was a marvelous thing, strange in its loveliness, and Blythe did not hesitate to put it on.
“It’s outstanding,” she whispered, holding it to her face as Signa helped fasten it.
“I think so, too. And as a bonus, no one will be able to tell that you’ve been crying.” Signa smiled, and Blythe took a moment to finally look her over, truly seeing her cousin for the first time since she arrived.
Signa was wearing the mask that Blythe had given her for last year’s masquerade, one with similar gilded branches but that curved around the right side of her face like vines, with delicately sculpted petals and ivy that spilled over the other side of her head and down past her blue eye. Again she wore red, though this time it was a deep burgundy made from satin, with golden adornments along the sleeves and bodice. She wore her hair down just as Blythe did, sporting loose waves that suited her so much better than any style she’d ever worn while living at Thorn Grove.
“Do you remember when you had to wear that awful yellow dress?” Blythe teased, laughing when Signa’s nose scrunched.
“I assume you mean when I looked like a walking banana? I try very
hard not to remember.”
For the first time all day, Blythe drew an easy breath. “I’m glad you’re here. There’s so much we need to discuss.”
“And we have all the time in the world to do it. But first, we’ve a ball to attend. If we wait any longer, Elijah will come looking for you.” Signa took Blythe by the arm and led her out of the parlor, and in their nearness Blythe noticed she had the pallor of someone who had not seen the sun in a good while.
Blythe wanted to tell her cousin all about the danger they were in and that they in fact did not have all the time in the world. But at the sight of such pallor, Blythe instead cupped her free hand over Signa’s and asked, “Have you still been reading those journals?”
Signa’s smile thinned. “I can’t seem to stop. There are only a few left.” “And have you found anything useful?”
Signa’s voice wavered. “I can’t say for certain… but I believe it possible that I was not the first in my family to be touched by the paranormal.”
Blythe’s throat tightened, but there were too many eyes monitoring them to share the truth. She wondered whether she might pull her cousin back into the parlor, but someone called out to her before Blythe had the chance.
“Miss Hawthorne!” The familiar voice was one that grated across Blythe’s skin, making her neck and body curl in on itself. She and Signa both turned to find Diana Blackwater fluttering a fan. Her lips were pinched, eyes squinted in a false smile as she made her way toward them.
“My apologies. How could I forget that you’re a Dryden now? I never imagined I’d be referring to you as Your Highness!” She spoke too loudly, laughing as she fanned herself.
“I imagine it’s quite a change for you, considering you don’t often have a reason to speak with anyone of prestige,” Signa offered with an innocent smile. Several others had gathered nearby to listen, assessing everything from Blythe’s dress to her belly, likely wondering if she was already hosting a royal heir. Each one of those eyes searched for the prince, and it took everything within Blythe to ignore the surprised gasps that sounded as she took a flute of champagne from a passing tray. She wasn’t going to drink it. This was a Thorn Grove party, after all. Still, it would at least keep the pregnancy questions at bay.
Signa’s jab seemed to have found its way between Diana’s ribs. The
young woman tensed, though it was Blythe who she remained fixated on, fan stilling in her hands for the briefest second before continuing anew. “Wherever is the prince? I didn’t see him come in with you.”
Blythe bit back the foul words cloying her tongue. She had enough on her mind as it was; the last thing she needed was for high society to involve itself.
“My husband is a busy man,” she answered simply, loud enough for any eavesdroppers to hear. “It’s unfortunate that business often keeps him away, though he was very kind to not want me to miss spending the holiday with my father.”
Diana hummed under her breath. “I see. And did you forget to pack your belongings? I would have thought you’d be wearing something a little more… royal.”
How grand Blythe’s visions were of skewering this woman and roasting her on a spit. Her palms itched, wishing to unleash a torrent of sharpened vines. But as such things were unbecoming of a lady, she kept such grand idealizations to herself and instead used the sharpest weapon a woman of her status was trained to wield—her words.
“Mind your tongue, Diana. My father gifted me this dress.”
The glare Diana flashed her upon use of her Christian name was white- hot.
“My apologies,” she chided, this time with a long and dreamy sigh. “It’s just that I think of how well I am treated by my dear Greggory, and I cannot help but wish the same kind of treatment for my treasured friend. He is the son of a viscount, you know. A proper man.”
“How great it must have been to find success with the season,” Signa quipped. “Which one was it, again? Your third? Oh, you must be so relieved.”
Blythe noticed the gold engagement ring glittering on Diana’s finger and said a silent prayer for the future viscount. The poor bastard.
Diana shut her fan with a snap as she glared at Signa, then once again back to Blythe.
“My father overheard yours discussing Verena at the club,” she said. “He mentioned that Mr. Hawthorne himself visited the palace during your honeymoon. It does make one wonder about the oddness of it, doesn’t it? I could perhaps offer some advice if you’ve struggled to hold the prince’s attention. Or maybe it’s just that your father can’t stand to be alone?”
Blythe stopped breathing, fighting to suppress a flood of thoughts about turning Diana into the most hideous tree. She would cut it down, chop the wood, and feed it to her hearth. Every night, she’d sit by the most glorious fire, warming her toes as the wood turned to ash.
The more she thought about it, the more a deep heat flared within her, her magic threatening to erupt. With every passing second, the hall transformed from gold and silver to a rich, blood-red hue. Her burgeoning rage was so intense that she could almost taste it. She clenched her teeth, struggling to push aside thoughts of vines ripping through the marble to ensnare Diana by the ankles, of dragging her underground and burying her alive. There were so many glorious possibilities.
She could endure whatever nonsense Diana wished to speculate about her. But her father? She would sooner shove moss down the woman’s throat than listen to another word from her foul lips.
Blythe drew a step forward, only for a hand much larger than Signa’s to grip her shoulder from behind and halt her murderous intent.
She spun to demand that everyone mind their own business, yet the words halted at her lips when she looked upon two molten eyes that did not stare back at her, but instead bore into Diana as if burning into the depths of the woman’s soul.
“Speak one more word to my wife,” Aris growled, “and I will tear your tongue from your throat.”
