Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(31)
“Precisely my point! Your atrocious behavior aside, we came here with every intention of seducing a prince, and so did she. Or that viscount, at the very least. It seems a strange thing to be focused on with her uncle’s death, doesn’t it? He was the closest thing to a father that Eliza had.”
It was a little peculiar, just as it was peculiar that she’d spent so much time near Byron whenever she wasn’t dancing. Still, even before Lord Wakefield’s death, Signa had witnessed Eliza’s change in demeanor the moment she’d debuted into society. She’d wanted a match her first year out, which wasn’t something Signa could hold against her. After all, hadn’t Signa hoped that for herself once, too?
“It’s worth keeping an eye on her,” Signa agreed. “Though I don’t see what motive she would have to kill the duke.”
Blythe sighed and slipped on her gloves. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t have one. She did rather enjoy parading through town on his arm. He always bought her the prettiest dresses.”
Perhaps there was a motive to find, though it seemed like a stretch. Every suspect seemed like a stretch. Finding the killer felt like little more than a wild-goose chase, and while Byron was at the top of her list, the pieces weren’t fitting together. She wanted to tell Blythe what she’d noticed between him and Eliza Wakefield, but Blythe had been through enough when it came to her family; Signa didn’t want her to feel betrayed by her uncle, too.
The road beneath their carriage had smoothed as they journeyed down the mountainside. When the conversation lulled, Blythe rested her head against the window and shut her eyes. After a few moments she was breathing deeply. Signa leaned back, sprawling her legs beneath the dress and then frowning, for the action reminded her of when she’d first started speaking to Death—to Sylas. The two of them had been in a train car when he’d spread his obscenely long legs, as rude as could be.
God, how she wished he could be with her now.
Gazing out the window, she caught glimpses of a beautiful blue moon through towering alder trees. Staring at it brought back memories of autumn. Of riding horseback beneath the stars with Sylas by her side. The breeze had nipped at her skin, and she could still recall the wry grin on his face as he’d tipped his head back to the sky and howled with Gundry.
She hadn’t wanted him to know about her escapades at Wisteria Gardens, especially considering he’d begged her not to go. But she missed him, and there was no saying how long Fate’s agreement would last. Signa didn’t want to wait until she was back at Thorn Grove before she spoke with Death; like Blythe, she tipped her own head against the carriage window and shut her eyes.
Do you intend to tell me the rest of the story about your brother? she asked. Or shall I sit and ponder the ending for all of eternity?
Signa waited, stilling her foot when she noticed its nervous tapping. Perhaps this was all for nothing. Perhaps Death still wouldn’t be able to hear her, and this was little more than Fate’s cruel joke. It seemed an eternity had passed before Signa’s eyes prickled with tears as she felt his attention home in on her. She hadn’t always been able to tell when Death was there listening, but ever since shared thoughts had become their most frequent form of communication, Signa had learned to sense his small subtleties—a quiet hum in her body. A prickling of her senses, suddenly more attuned to his.
Oh, Little Bird, how I’ve missed you. Though he may not have been with her in person, Death’s voice was a balm that soothed Signa all the same. She was glad Blythe was asleep, for there was no masking her grin. She swiped at her eyes, savoring the moment.
Fate was a fool if he thought that she would ever leave Death. She loved him like the winter, resolute and all-consuming. Loved him with summer’s steadiness, and with the ferocity of nature itself.
I’ve missed you, too, she told him while she still had the chance. And there are a million other things I’d rather talk to you about, but I don’t know how long we have.
She heard Death’s sigh as though he were beside her and willed herself to pretend that he was. That if she only reached out, the icy chill of his body would creep into hers. I take it you’ve spoken with my brother?
I need you to tell me who Life is, Signa said by way of an answer, hoping to bypass any argument they had no time for. I need you to tell me everything.
For a long moment there was only silence. Signa hesitated, wondering if Fate’s side of the agreement had already hit its time limit. But when she focused, she could feel Death still lurking in the corners of her mind, biding his time before he answered, Fate was all I had for many ages. Our relationship was not perfect—he has always felt that I should interfere with the human world less, while I have always suggested that he interfere more. That he listen to the requests of the souls whose lives he weaves, and take them into account. But Fate believes himself to be the perfect artist. Once a story is woven, he moves on to the next and doesn’t look back. We didn’t always agree on each other’s methods, but at the end of the day we were all each other had. Until, one day, we weren’t. It was here that Death paused, seemingly to gather his thoughts. Each subsequent word felt raw, as though this memory was costing him something great.
There was a woman like us, he continued. One who had always been in this world in one form or another. Her name was Life, and she was radiant. Fate was immediately taken with her, and they fell in love before my eyes. Life would create a soul, and Fate would give it purpose. He would weave their story before her. They were kinder stories then. Woven with more care because Life wanted her souls to thrive, and Fate wanted her to be happy. For her to smile. She had a beautiful smile.