Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(41)
“Very well. Then I would appreciate an escort to the Killinger estate, Mr. Crepsley. I’m happy to lead the way.”
As William nodded and set off to ready the horses, Blythe found herself more grateful than he would ever know. Not because he was kind or so fresh to this job that he didn’t realize she wasn’t meant to be here, but because if the earth began to sprout moss and thorns once again, at least this time she wouldn’t be alone.
William was slower than he ought to have been, though Blythe gave him no trouble. She was certain he was triple-checking his work, likely because he’d not had the opportunity to prep a horse for a proper ride since he’d started at Thorn Grove. But she kept her patience, and soon the groom returned with Mitra and another saddled white mare.
Mitra approached with her head low and her tail swishing, snorting a pleasant greeting at Blythe, who pressed a palm to the horse’s forehead and curled her fingers into the beautiful golden mane. It’d been ages since she’d seen the horse. Ages since her mother had been alive and well enough to go on rides with her nearly every afternoon. Blythe could almost hear the echo of her mother’s laughter as they rode. Could almost see her windblown hair shining like a sunburst against the sky.
For too long she’d avoided the memories of her mother, desperate not to follow in her path. But now, standing on the other side of death’s door, Blythe ached with nostalgia that had her longing for any remnants of her mother that were still left on this earth.
“Here you are, miss.” William steadied Mitra as Blythe slipped her foot into the stirrup and hoisted herself onto the saddle. Her throat tightened the moment she felt the steady lull of Mitra’s breathing beneath her. How long had it been since she’d had the strength to pull herself up without thinking anything of it? Blythe turned away from the groom as tears pricked her eyes.
Perhaps her subconscious had known all along that this was what she needed. She must have been more on edge than she’d realized to find so much solace in the stables. Still, Blythe’s heart couldn’t quite settle its discontented pounding. Not after what she’d seen in her father’s study, or what she’d read in those journals.
Blythe tightened her grip on the reins, determined to find the truth.
Charlotte Killinger had run into Signa the night of Percy’s disappearance. She was the one who’d alerted Elijah that the garden was on fire. Blythe had talked to her once already, months ago. But perhaps there was more information to be gleaned; if anyone could tell her more about what happened that night in the woods, it was Charlotte.
Blythe led the charge through the softened soil and into woods so achingly familiar that she felt like a child once more. She didn’t see just trees of ripe green bending toward them like a wanting mouth, but saw the ghost of her mother weaving through spindly branches, never letting them tear the hem of her white dress as they so often did with Blythe’s. Birds knocked their greetings upon the trunks of towering oaks or sang sweet spring pleasantries. Blythe heard her brother’s laughter within them. Heard him scolding her for letting herself get so soiled and calling after their mother to help Blythe fish her snared hair from greedy branches.
The farther they ventured into the woods the more Blythe’s nose stung and her eyes watered. She was glad, at least, that time had not dulled her familiarity with the land. She’d grown up on this soil, snatching plump berries from the bushes and trailing after Percy just long enough to see his ever so gentlemanly self sneak into a thicket of trees with different ladies over the years when he thought no one was paying attention. She nearly laughed at the memory; she’d be sure to tease Percy about it once they managed to find him.
Blythe didn’t need a path to know where she was going. She could make her way through the woods by the bend of the branches or by which trees browned with each waning season. The woods had always been a part of her, more entrenched in her soul than she’d ever realized.
Blythe would have given anything to close her eyes and let herself turn left, down the forgotten path to her mother’s garden, where the scent of lilies would caress her. She wanted to let herself believe that her mother would be waiting for her, watching the lotus flowers cascade through the pond or sitting on her favorite bench and reading a book that Blythe would later steal for herself.
But all that awaited her in the garden were ashes and the ghost of too-sweet memories. And so, Blythe turned right, away from the garden and toward the home of Charlotte Killinger.
It took less than twenty minutes to reach the estate that sat nestled at the base of the woods, sheltered by a fortress of towering elms. It wasn’t nearly as large as Thorn Grove, though its charm was unrivaled. Where Thorn Grove was grim, even the gray smoke pluming from the chimney of the Killinger estate somehow felt lovely. Creeping vines snaked around the estate’s dark stone, fighting to consume a front door that also seemed to be at war with the shrubbery growing against it. If someone tore out the image of a fairy-tale cottage and magicked it to life, Blythe imagined it would look like Charlotte’s home. The lawn upon which the home sat was a rich and vibrant green, surrounded by goose plums and a single elderberry tree. Moss crept up the iron fence around the property, and through its slats Blythe saw that Charlotte was already outside.
She was not, however, alone.
Everett Wakefield sat beside Charlotte, sporting a boyish grin. Charlotte was laughing, squeezing his hands in hers as they spoke in low, happy whispers. There was no sign of any escort, and Blythe felt every bit a voyeur as Everett stole a kiss that Charlotte was all too happy to return.