Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(47)
She was no better than Fate, really. And while she could not give him what he wanted, she had to admit that being with him didn’t feel as bad as she’d expected.
“So you spend your days drinking the finest wine and eating the most delicious food you can find?” she teased. “It sounds exhausting.”
The barest hint of a smile cracked his lips. “It’s not so luxurious as that, I’m afraid. Mostly I work.”
“By weaving tapestries,” she specified as she plucked the slug from the blanket and tucked it into the soil at the base of the oak. She may have been doomed to burn in the sunlight, but at least the slug didn’t have to.
“By weaving tapestries,” he echoed. “Yes. Though you make it sound so simple.”
“Is it not?” She thought of her own abilities as the reaper and how natural they felt. Her powers of Life, however… As much as she was drawn to exploring them, using them had felt like tearing herself apart from the inside out. Signa clung to his words, desperate to understand. There would be some relief, she imagined, if she knew someone else who struggled with their own unusual abilities.
Fate leaned forward, and so bright was his smile that Signa’s heart stuttered. “I could show you if you’d like?”
Curiosity festered within her, yet she could only imagine the ideas Fate would get if she agreed. She had no desire to let this man continue believing there was a chance of anything between them, no matter how tempting the idea of watching him work might have been.
“You said that you wouldn’t hurt Blythe.” Signa set aside her plate and cup, both empty. “And you said that you make it a point not to lie, so will you vow that to me, then? That no matter what happens between us, you will bring her no harm? That you will not warp her mind, or turn her into one of your puppets?”
“My puppets?” He snorted, finishing off his drink before reaching into his pocket and brandishing a silver sewing needle. Without a moment’s hesitation, Fate pricked the tip of it into his finger. Upon it, a single bead of blood shone gold. “Very well. If this is what it takes to ease your mind, then I will make you the most binding promise of all. Give me your hand.”
She did, so used to pricking her own finger when she’d been testing out her abilities that she didn’t blink when he pierced the needle into her skin. The moment her blood welled up, he pressed his against it.
“For as long as I exist, I vow to never bring harm to Blythe Hawthorne.” Fate’s blood seared against her skin, and Signa gritted through the pain with a hiss.
Before he could pull away, she gripped his hand tighter. “And what of Death?” Though she knew she was pressing her luck when he tried to withdraw his hand, Signa held on. “Will you also vow not to hurt him?”
Fate stopped trying to pull away and instead allowed his eyes to meet hers as he said coolly, “He will not be extended the same courtesy.”
Signa jerked away, her blood pulsing a manic rhythm. Rationally she could understand Fate’s anger. Given who it was toward, however, she accepted none of it.
“I expect my communication with him to be restored immediately,” she demanded as Fate wiped their smeared blood onto a handkerchief he’d produced from his pocket. He was a shell of the man he’d been moments ago, scowling so deeply it looked as though someone had taken a chisel and carved it upon his face.
“You’ll be able to speak with him this evening.” Fate stood, stomping across the blanket before he grabbed the basket, the tart still inside. If only she’d waited another five minutes before picking this fight, she might have been able to try it. “Rest well, Miss Farrow. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
That, Signa was sure, she could count on.
EIGHTEEN
WHEN SIGNA RETURNED TO HER ROOMS THAT EVENING, DEATH WAS WAITING.
Though she could not see him, his oppressiveness weighed upon her the moment she stepped over the threshold. It felt as though she were wading through gelatin as she forced one foot after the other, her excitement stifled by the instinct to turn back.
Her eyes darted around the room, and she wished she could catch a glimpse of him. But all she saw was Gundry curled by the fire, his paws sprawled near the hearth as he slept, seemingly without a care in the world even as every hair along Signa’s neck rose.
“What is it?” she whispered, though she already knew the source of Death’s anger before his words filled her thoughts.
Tell me I’m mistaken. For once Death’s voice was no balm to her soul but a blizzard that chilled every inch of her. Tell me that you are no fool, Little Bird, and that you did not make a bargain with my brother.
“I did not make a bargain with your brother.” Signa shut the door behind her and turned the lock, worried someone might stroll by and see her breath pluming the air. “I made two. And I understand if you’re frustrated, but—”
Frustrated? The fire in the hearth flickered, rousing Gundry from his slumber. The hound lifted his head and growled low in his throat. You haven’t the faintest idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Fate is not someone you bargain with, Signa.
The last time Signa could remember hearing him this angry was after she’d first met Eliza Wakefield and the other girls for tea months earlier. He’d hated how Signa had stifled herself around them, pretending to be someone she wasn’t solely to appease them. This time, though, there wasn’t just anger in his tone, but something else that Signa couldn’t place.