Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(19)
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.
NINE
THEY’D BEEN RIDING FOR WHAT FELT LIKE HOURS, JOURNEYING through twisting brambly roads and hills so precarious that both Signa and Blythe had to squint their eyes shut for fear of falling. Eventually, though, forest gave way to sprawling hills cast a burnished orange by the setting sun as the first sign of Wisteria Gardens emerged.
The palace sat upon acres of grass so ripe a green that it reminded Signa of illustrated pages from old fairy tales. It was situated on a vast mountainside, massive enough that Thorn Grove felt like little more than a farmer’s cottage in comparison.
Both Signa and Blythe pressed their faces to the windows as their carriage continued past iron gates strung with ivy and half green with lichen. Before them was a line of at least a dozen more carriages that rolled through a courtyard paved with pristine white stones. Grass nearly the color of Signa’s dress sprouted between them, so meticulously clipped that it made the walkway look ready for a life-size game of chess. It was upon those stones that the young women were dropped off, Signa’s heart fluttering in spite of itself as she stepped out of the carriage.
Wisteria Gardens was almost eerie in its beauty. The setting sun burned behind the palace, and the breeze was so gentle and lulling that Signa was almost tricked into believing the place was little more than the innocent countryside home of a prince. She looked to her right, where ripe green hills rolled down a mountainside full of grazing horses and bleating sheep. It was odd, though, how the sounds they made seemed to repeat themselves as if on a loop, and how there was no scent of them in the air. She smelled only the wisteria and looked past the courtyard to see the blooming trees that were the palace’s namesake, purple blossoms dangling from the branches and crawling up the side of the palace. There was even a wisteria-laden archway along the walking path, exquisitely maintained.