Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(37)
“There’s never any time these days. And it’s no use being angry; I have resigned myself to the understanding that you will forever ignore my wishes and will do whatever you want.” Though he kept his voice light as he followed her out the door, he hovered within arm’s reach, observing her every move. They kept to the walls, close to the portraits of the Hawthorne lineage, which Death inspected as they walked. “There really are a lot of them, aren’t there?” He took a few more steps, stopping at another portrait of a woman with flat eyes and an angry mouth. “I remember the day I picked this one up. She wouldn’t stop screaming and told me that if she was dead, then I needed to take her husband, too. He was perfectly healthy.”
Signa smiled and let her hand slide into his, savoring the moment while it lasted. She’d journeyed down these halls with Sylas before, sleuthing for clues about Lillian Hawthorne’s murder. She knew she shouldn’t feel nearly as giddy as she did, but Signa’s life had never been normal, and sneaking into the study to investigate her uncle with Death at her side felt like her own personal brand of courtship.
“This is the one.” Signa paused to listen for any footsteps or signs of life from inside. When only silence answered, Signa shuddered as she slipped through the door.
Elijah’s study was as she remembered—an expansive room with leather chairs as rich as caramel and sleek, polished furniture. It had a masculine essence, warm and sophisticated and smelling of pine. The hundreds of books shelved across the walls were pristine and untouched, though the desk was another story. It was a mess of tea-stained papers and journals filled with notes on every page.
Death joined Signa as she prowled around the desk, commanding her shadows to slide the chair out of the way so she didn’t have to stand in the middle of a piece of furniture and feel like a true ghost. He laughed, low and pleased, as he watched her. “I didn’t expect you would have such control already.”
“Of course I do.” She summoned the shadows around her again, their tendrils turning the pages she could not touch in her spirit form. “I’m a reaper, after all.”
The words were as much for her own benefit as his, though she stumbled on them. When she was in this form, being able to command the shadows made her feel more powerful than anything in this world. She liked that she and Death were so similar. Liked that there was a side to her that only he understood.
But as much as she craved the thrum of this power coursing through her, Fate’s suspicions still beat against the back of her mind. If he was right—if her hands really could bring life instead of death—then shouldn’t that be the power she craved?
She didn’t want to believe it could be true, and yet the idea had burrowed too deeply into her mind, a constant itch she couldn’t scratch. She had to distract herself from it by sorting through the pages and clippings scattered on the desk. The first that drew her eye featured a story of the garden fire.
Signa’s throat tightened. So lost in her thoughts was she that she tried to reach for the paper herself, only for her ghostly hand to slip through it. Death stepped beside her, inspecting the pages from over her shoulder. And then he spoke aloud the truth that filled Signa with such dread—“Byron is investigating Percy’s disappearance.”
There weren’t just notes in the ledgers but also the names of vendors and friends. Charlotte Killinger’s name was underlined, and Signa noticed with great distaste that her own name had been circled. Elijah’s, too.
Behind them was a map that Death turned and inspected in grim silence. Signa turned to it as well, though she immediately wished she hadn’t. There were towns struck through with an X, and only one still circled—Amestris. She returned to the desk to find the same name on the ledgers, with the address of every inn and pub in Amestris noted.
“Byron’s searching for him,” Signa whispered. Her guilt was acidic, burning through her. It seemed Byron had searched nearly half the country by now. Page by page his notes lost their elegance, until nearly illegible writing was scrawled across the journal. Some of it was so difficult to read that she nearly missed a word at the top the most recent page: Murder?
The shadows evaporated from her like smoke as Signa stumbled backward. Death gripped her by the shoulders, steadying her.
“He knows.” Had Signa been in her mortal form, she would have been sick. As it was, she settled a hand over her stomach and tried to quell the burning guilt. “He knows Percy is dead. He knows someone killed him. My name is on those papers, Death. He must think it was me. He must know—”
“He knows nothing.” Death’s fingers curled into her skin. “We left no trace behind. Byron can suspect all he wants, but he doesn’t know a thing. I promise you, I took care of it.”
Perhaps. Yet all she could see were the maps with cities crossed out and the dozens of scattered notes written by a wild hand. Outwardly, Byron was maintaining his composure. But inwardly…
“He loved Percy.” Signa’s lips numbed at the words. “He loved him, and he’ll never see him again. He doesn’t even know what happened.” She felt as though she were a forgotten doll, held together by threads that were fraying at the seams. As cruel as Percy was in the end, did his family not deserve answers? She had hoped to spare them such a painful truth, yet there was nothing she could say without them knowing she was responsible for his death. If that happened… she would lose the Hawthornes forever.