BLYTHE TRIED TO RETURN LIFE’S MIRROR THE NEXT MORNING ONLY to find
that the hall leading to the woman’s suite was once again obscured. For an hour she looped the upper floor, squinting in the hopes that the light would shift and reveal a path, and always ending right back where she started— beneath the forever-looming portrait of a woman long deceased.
Only when she reached it this time, Blythe took a seat, mirror in hand. Its surface was not of glass, but one of polished obsidian, obscuring her reflection in darkness and a thick haze. Still, she had trouble looking away from it. Not because of how ridiculous she looked in her several layers of dresses and coats, but because the longer she stared at its inky surface, the more the haze began to move. Her finger skimmed the length of the carved handle as she squinted, drawing her reflection closer.
Rubbing her eyes did not clear the darkness that swirled not within the mirror but outside it. Behind her. Every muscle in Blythe’s body tensed, for she knew in her bones that this was no trick of her vision.
“So this is the state in which my brother has kept you.” It was Death who emerged from the shadows brewing behind her. Blythe knew it was him from the timbre of his voice and the darkness that swathed him, but as he moved to stand before her, he took a form that she’d not seen before. Not one of a reaper, but of a broad-shouldered man with fair skin, gray eyes, and hair the color of bone. As human as he appeared, there was an unnatural stillness that made him even eerier in this form, for his chest didn’t rise or fall with the steadiness of breath and, like Signa, he did not blink nearly as much as he ought to. What an unnerving couple they made.
“Your brother is not known for his kindness.” She turned toward Death, lowering the mirror to her lap. Her eyes skimmed to the writhing shadows at his feet, where the traitorous fox looped circles around his ankles. “Have I finally frozen to death? Is that why you’re here?” Blythe’s lips pressed tight as Death stooped to the fox’s level, running a gloved hand down the length of its spine. The blasted thing practically purred.
“Fate may want you to give up,” Death said, “but he won’t go as far as to kill you.” He straightened, and in his hand was a letter. Her letter, Blythe realized. The one she’d written to Signa.
“That wasn’t meant for you!” Blythe knew that Death had tried to help her, that he’d broken rules to keep her alive. Even so, she couldn’t help the anger that flared in his presence.
“She gave it to me. Signa doesn’t have the power to transport other people,” he told her. “I, on the other hand, can slither through the shadows, as you so eloquently put it, and bring you to Foxglove.”
Blythe’s throat was thick with dread, for all she could think about was how he’d have to step closer. How he’d have to touch her. She scanned down the length of his arms, fixated on his leather gloves. They weren’t the only things that covered his body; in fact, all skin apart from Death’s face was covered. He was finely dressed in a coat of black, with a cravat tightened against his throat and matching trousers and boots of great making. In this form, Blythe supposed he could be considered handsome. Still, how Signa had fallen in love with the literal embodiment of Death was entirely lost on her.
Blythe couldn’t breathe in his presence. It was as though her throat was full of gravel, every inhale a rasp. But Death was her ticket to Foxglove. He alone could get her out of Wisteria and to civil company before boredom had her chewing off her own arm.
When Death’s eyes fell to the mirror, she curled it quickly into her skirts. “Will it hurt?” she asked, seized with dread when Death’s expression pinched.
“No, but it will feel strange.” Slowly, he pulled his focus back up to her face. “I swear on everything that I am that I will never again hurt you. And I will speak to my brother, too, about getting you better accommodations.”
Death watched her with such intensity that Blythe flinched, uncertain what to do with the vow. It was strange how adamantly he spoke it, though
if that vow was what kept her alive, then she’d gladly accept it.
“You will do no such thing.” Though Death was too close for comfort, Blythe stood to look him firmly in those strange, unblinking eyes. “I have this handled. If Aris thinks I’ve spoken with you, his temper will only worsen. The last thing I need is for him to believe that we’re conspiring against him.”
She took a step forward before Death could argue and demanded, “Do you swear on your life that this will not kill me?”
With a quiet puff of air that might have been a laugh, he answered, “I swear it.”
“Then what about Signa’s life?” she pressed, for his answer was not enough to quell her worries. “Do you swear on hers, as well?”
Death’s jaw tensed. “I do not care for this question, though my answer is the same. Going with me will not kill you.” He stretched a hand toward hers, though he didn’t touch it just yet, leaving it up to Blythe to close the distance between them.
Even through his gloves, touching Death felt like falling beneath a frozen lake. Every part of her body seized with a shock so great that she forgot to breathe, remembering to do so only when her vision flickered to black. It felt like she was swimming, like the ground beneath her gave way to water that she slipped straight through. It was similar to what she’d felt days ago in her mother’s garden, but different. Colder, but calmer. All the more terrifying, and yet not painful in the slightest.
Time was a construct, for she had vanished from Wisteria and arrived at Foxglove within the span of a single blink, though it somehow felt like ages had passed. She swayed on her feet, adjusting to the wood beneath her and squinting her eyes against the light until she could see the room Death had brought her to.
It looked like a study, though it was in far worse shape than her father’s had ever been. There were papers littered about and journals spread open on the desk and floor. Through the window was a thrashing sea, and though the skies were gray, the manor was brightly lit. It was warm, too. So warm that Blythe shuddered as her temperature rose. She clenched and unclenched her fists, working feeling back in her limbs only to realize that Life’s mirror was gone.
Good. Better that Death had it than she.
He’d moved to stand behind Signa, who sat cross-legged on the floor several feet away, sporting a genuine smile despite the shadows beneath her eyes and the disarray of her hair. The stains on her dress, too, had Blythe wondering when she’d last changed.
Though it was Blythe who ought to have posed the question, it was Signa who asked, “What on earth are you wearing?”
Blythe glanced down at her slippers and the layers of dresses she wore beneath her wool coat. She’d been so eager to leave that she hadn’t even considered the need to get ready. “It seems I’m wearing my pajamas.”
“That’s what you sleep in?” Signa blinked those strange, too-wide eyes of hers before whipping her head toward the reaper. “And you didn’t let her change?”
Death eased into a chair beside her, stroking the head of his massive hound, Gundry, as he tipped back in his seat. “She didn’t ask to.” In that moment, the brotherly resemblance between him and Aris was unmistakable. Blythe didn’t appreciate the squint of Death’s eyes or the way his head tilted to observe her, as though she were a puzzle in need of solving. Especially when the only puzzle here was what Signa was up to.
“What is all this?” Blythe asked, taking her skirts in hand as she stepped over one of the journals, crouching to observe its messy scrawl.
Though Signa was still side-eyeing Blythe’s many layers, she brightened at the question. “It turns out that my mother kept journals. We found dozens of them beneath a false bottom in one of her chests. I’m hoping to use them to figure out who killed my parents.”
She should have known Signa would piece together another mystery for herself if left to her own devices. Blythe moved to investigate the journal that Signa was perched nearest to, trailing a finger down one of its yellowed pages. Though her touch was gentle, Signa frowned and shifted the journal away when she thought Blythe wasn’t looking. It was no wonder the shadows beneath Signa’s eyes were so severe. She looked like a dragon within the depths of its lair, hoarding treasures from all who dared approach.
Death stirred as he watched her, a small frown curling his lips. If Signa’s behavior was unnerving to even him, that seemed like the most dangerous sign of any as to her cousin’s mental state. Blythe was glad she’d sent Signa a letter, even if it had been for her own benefit.
She was about to close one of the journals and say something of the sort when Signa’s attention flew to the door behind her. Her face at once went tart as she stepped before Blythe, as if to block her. Behind her, Gundry growled low in his throat.
“Shut your eyes if the light bothers you,” her cousin hissed, glaring daggers toward an empty doorway. Then softer, she added, “And no, Liam, we have everything we need. Thank you.” Blythe leaned around Signa, trying to get a better look. No matter how much she squinted, she was certain that no one was there.
It took a few more moments before Signa relaxed, telling her, “Don’t worry, it was only the spirits.” It was not lost on Blythe how dismissive the words were. Like talking to spirits was a casual, everyday occurrence. “Pay them no mind. They’re mostly harmless.”
“Mostly?” Blythe echoed, her pulse in her throat.
Signa lifted one of the journals from the floor, marking its page with a rose petal she plucked from a vase. “Even if they act out, you’ll be fine.”
As curious as Blythe was to discover what a spirit could actually do, being tormented by one was the last thing she ever wanted to experience. She glanced around the room—taking in Signa’s state—and kept a forced smile on her lips as she asked, “I’m surprised by how quiet it is. Where has all your staff gone?”
“Most of them fled after the ball.” Signa carefully stepped around a few more open journals and scattered sketches on the floor. “They couldn’t bear staying in a place that proved its haunted reputation. But I do have Liam now, and you’d be surprised how useful a ghostly butler can be. Oh, and Elaine is still here. She’s technically in charge, though there’s not much of anyone for her to manage since she can’t see Liam. Which is probably for the best, considering he thinks he’s in charge. We have to keep him busy with tasks; otherwise, he starts breaking windows. I’d have Elaine bring up some tea so you could meet her, but that would raise a thousand questions about your arrival.”
Blythe nodded for appearance’s sake, once more casting a glance at Death as she processed this information. This time, he looked back, the shadows beneath his eyes showing that he shared her concern about Signa’s disarray.
At least Death had his wits about him. Though Signa seemed well and happy, it was clear she was spending far too much time with only the dead
for company. Even her latest mystery was so entrenched in death that Blythe scrunched her nose. She understood Signa wanting to solve her parents’ murder, truly, but there was no ticking timer or any reason for her to hole up inside Foxglove and become as inhuman as the rest of the company she kept.
Gently, Blythe took Signa’s hand and gave it a good squeeze. “It sounds like we have much to catch up on, cousin. But I, for one, would like to enjoy the sun on my skin. What do you say to us getting dressed and taking this conversation outside?”
Though Signa cast one last look at a journal behind her, she squeezed back. “That’s an excellent plan. Just as soon as I finish this last page.”
