Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(26)
No one else noticed it. But Signa did, just as she noticed that while the voices had quieted, they wielded their whispers like finely honed blades and flocked around Blythe like wolves circling for the kill. She wished again that Death were present, if only to feel his comforting chill against her bones as she watched her cousin with increasing dread in her stomach. On her own, Signa’s abilities were not yet a match against Fate’s. She thumbed at the belladonna she kept tucked in her dress regardless, just in case. Whether Fate intended it or not, he was broadening the target on Blythe’s back, and one of these days someone was bound to take aim. Signa wished only that she could be Blythe’s shield.
Fate set his hand on the small of Blythe’s back, a small gesture but one that was far from innocent. Like every other unmarried woman in the crowd, Signa readied herself to pounce the moment the song was over, unwilling to watch her cousin continue this parade of tossing her hair back and smiling in some ridiculous attempt to sway a man she undoubtedly hated.
“Look at them,” Charlotte whispered dreamily, leaning her head against Signa’s shoulder. “They make quite the pair, don’t they? Their children would look like little sunbursts.”
“He knows that her father’s been accused of murder, doesn’t he?” Diana flapped her fan against the heat of the ballroom, and for once Signa found herself wishing she had one of her own. Why was it that these events always looked so much more glamorous on the outside than they truly were?
It was a challenge to stand idly by as Fate and Blythe danced. Though, given all the eyes on Signa, she had little choice but to force a smile onto her lips. She needed to get onto that dance floor, which meant that she needed to make herself look approachable at the very least. Already Charlotte and Diana were being swept away with invitations, names filling their dance cards. Eliza Wakefield, too, had rejoined the others on the floor. Though her dress dazzled as she spun and twirled in the arms of a man Signa had never seen, her smile was frayed at the ends, and her gaze kept flickering toward the corner where Byron stood watching, the sconces cutting grim shadows across his face.
Signa nearly cursed when she realized what she was doing. How much easier it would have been if she’d been honest with Death about her intent to come and had him watching over Byron. As it was, she had to make a choice—there would be time for Byron later. But first, getting Blythe as far from Fate as possible took precedence.
She accepted a dance from the first man to ask her and took her place across from him in a row of other women. Down the row her eyes wandered, searching for Blythe. It wasn’t until she turned her attention back to her partner that Signa noticed the man who stood before her was not the same one who’d invited her to dance. It was Fate himself, silent but for the gleam in his eyes that spoke louder than laughter. There was no time to retreat before the song began.
“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Farrow? I could feel your eyes boring into me from across the ballroom.” Fate stepped forward, the burnished amber of the walls casting a glow on the floor that reminded Signa of a late autumn sunset, almost as though they were dancing upon fallen maple leaves. Yet there was no gentle crunch beneath her footsteps; no settling of her mind and easing of her chest that came from autumn’s stillness. Signa mirrored her partner as he lifted one hand to the air, their palms nearly touching as they circled each other as if on either side of a looking glass.
Heat seared between the open space of their palms, jolts of static prickling her fingertips. Signa kept a straight face despite it all. From the low swell of music to the sunset lighting, everything about Fate was a performance she refused to acknowledge. “Whatever your issue is with me, my cousin has no part of this.”
“On the contrary,” he said, and Signa noticed for the first time that there was the hint of an accent in his voice. It wasn’t like any she’d heard before, but something old and strange and almost guttural. “Because of your insistence that she live, your cousin has now defied her fate three times over. Three times, she was meant to die.”
Signa’s throat squeezed tight as she realized that the room’s chattering had ceased. Gone was the low sweep of autumn as winter’s silent chill leached in. There were no whispers or laughter, nor even the soft tinking of glassware. While those around her continued to dance, their movements had sharpened, every one of them as precise as the next and perfectly coordinated. Pretty faces smiled at no one, their unblinking eyes filling with tears that streaked down their cheeks and onto grinning lips. They were little more than puppets and Fate their puppeteer, twisting and twirling and bending them to his every whim.
Everywhere Signa looked there were signs of Fate’s power. From the palace and the golden threads spun around it, to his control over so many beings at once. It was an effortless power—one he didn’t even seem to consider as he spun Signa across the dance floor.
“Free them.” While her command was firm, Signa was careful not to let emotion slip in. It wouldn’t do to give Fate anything more to hold over her, though something in his gleaming eyes told her that he already knew how deeply his power bothered her.
“You must have many questions for me,” he said. “Promise me another dance, and I’ll answer whatever you wish me to.”
She had to stop her brows from shooting up. Fate was baiting her, yes, but if there was even a possibility that he was being sincere…