Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(43)
Except for one thing—why had Percy never tried to contact them? Not for money, not to share his whereabouts, and most painfully, not to check on Blythe’s health and ensure she was still alive. Perhaps he was worried that contacting anyone would endanger him, but… wouldn’t he have at least tried?
Perhaps Percy truly had started a life under a different name, someplace where their family wasn’t a constant target. Blythe, however, couldn’t ignore Byron’s notes or the crossed-off maps. The Hawthornes’ resources were infinite.
Charlotte was tentative when she next spoke, her words low. “If Percy moved elsewhere, they should have been able to find him.”
“What do you mean, ‘if’?” Blythe pressed, her mind unable to stray from that single word. “If he didn’t leave on his own accord, then what do you think happened?”
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder, as if to ensure no one was approaching. “It’s not my place to speculate.”
“Of course I want you to speculate! That’s why I’m here—”
This time when Blythe’s words cut off, it was because Charlotte pressed her hand over Blythe’s mouth, smothering any sound.
“You are glossing over an important part of what came next, Blythe. The part where I ran into your cousin. It’s hardly me that you should be asking these questions—I wasn’t the one who ran toward the fire that night.”
Blythe tore herself from Charlotte, wiping her mouth. “You think Signa is the reason for Percy’s disappearance?” Blythe’s laughter was a harsh, cleaving sound that had Charlotte sitting stiffly upright. “What do you think she could have done to him? Run him out of town? Do you think she’s strong enough to have killed him?”
Blythe was a coiled snake ready to strike the hand feeding her. She knew full well that she had no business behaving like this at Charlotte’s own home, and yet she couldn’t withhold the anger that festered within her. She was used to people backing away when she bit; it was how she protected herself from whatever she didn’t care to face. So when Charlotte sat tall and unflinching, it was Blythe who began to shrivel, panic settling in.
“I knew Signa when we were only children,” Charlotte insisted. “She was my closest friend because I liked that she was a little strange, and that she spent her days in the woods like I did. People would say things about her, but I never listened. There are rumors, though. Rumors about why she’s been passed from family to family, and why all her guardians have died.
“People always said that she was cursed, though I didn’t believe it until her uncle died,” Charlotte continued, each word quieter than the previous. “And then my own mother followed. My father and I fled, and for years I thought it was silly. Signa couldn’t have been the reason my mother and her uncle contracted the disease that killed them. I was glad to see her again, but ever since that night in the garden I can’t help but wonder… why did she run toward the fire?”
Blythe didn’t need to think about the answer; she knew it in her bones. “She was looking for Percy.”
“Perhaps.” Charlotte’s fingers clenched the edge of the bench. “Again, it’s not my place to speculate.”
Blythe wished suddenly that she’d never come to Charlotte’s. Because Signa had saved her life. She had been there when no one else had. She was Blythe’s person, which was all Blythe could think of as she flagged William and summoned their horses. She mounted wordlessly while Charlotte looked on, her expression hostile.
“Everett wants to keep his eye on her, you know,” she called as Blythe gathered the reins in her hand. “Why do you think he’s invited you all to the investiture? Surely, you can’t believe it’s because he still cares for her.”
Blythe paused then, only for a moment and only because she had never heard such malice seep from Charlotte’s tongue. Even Miss Killinger seemed to quickly recognize her slipup, for her eyes went wide as she covered her mouth.
And though Blythe knew better—though she hadn’t wanted to say a word about it—she felt such a protective fire for Signa that she could not help but reply. “Given what I just witnessed between you and Everett, it never crossed my mind that he did. When you go back to him, do tell him hello for me, would you?”
Charlotte drew back, and Blythe hated that she’d hit her mark. One word from Blythe, and Charlotte’s reputation would be ruined.
Blythe wouldn’t say anything, of course, and she hated herself for even letting Charlotte believe that she might. Without another breath between them, Charlotte hurried inside while Blythe snapped the reins and set off atop Mitra, William keeping pace beside her.
“There was a man hiding in the stables,” he whispered. “He was squatting behind a hay bale.”
The look that Blythe cut him was indignant. “No, there was not.”
This time, as she gave Mitra a gentle kick and hurried into the forest’s embrace, it wasn’t her mother that Blythe thought of as branches clawed her hair and snagged her dress. She was instead reminded of the ladies of this season, who would claw at anyone they could to get ahead; Charlotte’s competitiveness had her behaving no better than the others.
Yet that wasn’t why, in that moment, Blythe hated Charlotte more than anyone in the world. Rather, it was because Charlotte had planted a seed inside her mind. And no matter how hard Blythe tried to be rid of it, the idea was a weed within her thoughts, burying itself deep and spreading its roots.