BLYTHE FELT LIKE A THIEF IN HER OWN HOME AS SHE PRESSED against the walls
of her suite. It was strange how she felt the need to tiptoe so that no one would know she was there.
She had no idea of the time, only that it was dark, with no midday light filtering in through her curtains. There were candles in her nightstand, though Blythe hesitated before reaching for one as a quiet creaking down the hall rose the hairs on her neck.
Unless she was mistaken, it was coming from the precise direction in which she’d seen someone disappear in her hallucination.
A noise in itself wasn’t unusual; this was a manor, after all, full of maids who sometimes kept odd hours with their tidying and the sound of wuthering along the moors. There wasn’t a night that passed in which thin branches did not scrape across the panes of her window and try to claw their way inside. There’d been a point the year prior when many people, including her father, had even claimed to hear the sound of a woman crying at all hours of the night.
No sound was strange when it came to Thorn Grove; rather, it was the direction it came from that was unusual, as Blythe had been the sole person to live in this wing before moving to Wisteria.
She flattened her palms against the wall, bracing herself as two hearths swam in her vision, in a room that had only one. She curled her fingers into the wallpaper, half ready to tear it off.
God, did she despise being so tired. Just the escape through Wisteria’s door and into Thorn Grove had her ready to sit down. But she had to keep
going. Something had guided her here, and Blythe knew from the experience with her ring what happened when you tried to ignore magic.
If she was going to uncover the truth, then she needed to do it before the spinning in her mind became any more unbearable. She took a small step forward to press her ear to the door, listening as someone padded by, each of their steps slow and deliberate, trying hard not to be heard. Again a door creaked, and this time Blythe used the sound as a cover as she cracked open her own door and squinted her eyes through the darkness just in time to see a figure enter her mother’s room.
Whoever it was, they were at least a head taller than her and appeared to be wearing a hood. Beyond that, it was too dark to make out anything more than their general shape. It was unwise, she knew, to chase creeping hooded figures through the darkness of a haunted manor. But given that she was already dying, what was the harm?
Relying on the final dregs of her energy, Blythe made a quick grab for the poker propped beside her hearth. She clenched it tight before tiptoeing out of her room and to the door beside the framed portrait of her mother.
Surely it was her own imagination that had her mind playing tricks on her—it had, after all, been a long while since she’d truly examined the portrait—but Blythe could have sworn that her mother’s face was more drawn than usual. Had her mother’s eyes always been pinched and sallow at the corners, staring out with such concern?
Blythe’s heart could have won at the races for how swiftly it beat against her chest. She sucked in a long breath through pursed lips, then pushed it out again to steady her trembling as she said a prayer that her body would cooperate.
As she squeezed the poker, ensuring it fit well in her grasp, she felt a pulse of heat on her ring finger. It was gentle, as if Aris was searching for her. If something did happen, Blythe hoped that this strange bond of theirs might somehow warn him. Because she wasn’t going to wait. Not when her head was swimming and her body felt ready to give out at any minute.
Before she could change her mind or allow weakness to best her, Blythe kicked the door open and let her poker swing.
To her surprise, it made almost immediate contact. She nearly screamed at the resistance on the other end of it, her chest a tight coil when a figure winced and then immediately slumped over, their body hitting the floor.
Now Blythe did squeal, glancing around the room as she tried to figure out what she was meant to do next. She hadn’t expected to actually hit someone.
The body had its back to her, its face to the floor and head obscured by the hood. Though she might have been able to make out more in the daylight, here in the night she could see only a sliver of red hair.
Blythe pressed the end of the poker against the softest part of their neck. Whoever this was, they’d been making their way into one of the hidden tunnels behind a portrait in her mother’s room. The door had been a secret to even the staff, one of the old escape routes in Thorn Grove that her mother had shown her as a child if ever they needed to flee the manor.
Men’s clothing was scattered about, and Blythe realized that this person had dropped the pieces during their fall. Streaks of grime coated the walls and armoire, and a vase of dried flowers had been emptied in the corner. It sat by the widow with bedsheets tied around its rim. To fetch snow, Blythe realized. It’d been used to fetch snow for drinkable water. How very clever.
Blythe glanced down, noticing then that this person—this man, perhaps
—wore her father’s boots and a suit that was a touch too wide for his lean frame.
Nerves knotted Blythe’s throat. The figure was unconscious but still breathing. It seemed that luck was finally on Blythe’s side to have allowed her to land such a blow. She could tie the man up and wait for help to arrive. They could interrogate him to determine what he knew about the break-ins at Grey’s or whether he was involved with Solanine.
But first, she needed to see his face. Blythe could only hope that the man didn’t rouse as she crouched down and dared to yank back his hood. She regretted it the next second, stumbling back with a scream as she threw herself away from the body.
Away from the face that she had once believed to know better than anyone. Because it wasn’t possible.
It wasn’t.
She clutched her ring finger, desperately wishing she could use it to signal Aris to come find her immediately, for she understood then why Chaos had sought her out and why she had been led to this room.
She turned and bolted for the door when a hand seized her waist and yanked her back. Another hand covered her mouth, its taste of dirt and metal so foul that Blythe struggled not to gag. Thrashing against his grip, Blythe bit down on his palm with all her remaining strength.
Her teeth sank into flesh—rank but real, solid flesh. This was no dream. This was real. Thorns burst through her skin, and the man recoiled with a hiss as one cut into him, but he did not release his hold.
“Calm down!” he hissed in her ear, making her want to recoil from his voice. “I’m going to let you go, but you have to promise not to scream. Do you understand?”
Though every part of her wanted to continue biting and tearing at him, she fought the urge. He wrenched the poker from her hand and tossed it aside as tears burned in Blythe’s eyes.
Poker or not, she would fight him. She’d turn herself into a briar patch, ensnaring every inch of him in thorns if need be. But for now, she nodded.
“Good.” He eased his hold and cautiously withdrew his hands. Even so she could still feel that he was there behind her, ready to pounce should she try anything.
She should have thrust the poker through his throat when she’d had the chance. Because he certainly hadn’t hesitated. Not when it came to trying to kill her.
“Hello, Blythe,” he whispered. “I’m glad to see you’re well.”
She couldn’t say whether it was rage or heartbreak that tore her throat open as she turned to look upon the familiar freckled face.
“Hello, Percy.”
