Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(7)

“I was given a choice,” she whispered, “and I made it.”

With his chin resting on her head, Signa felt Death’s gentle hum before she heard it. “Are you saying that if you were in that position again, you’d choose a different path?”

She wouldn’t, and that’s what terrified her more than anything. What kept her up at night wasn’t that she’d given the command to trade Percy’s life for Blythe’s, but that she’d do it again. She had begun to love Percy, truly. But it’d been almost too easy to let him die. Perhaps she was already more of a reaper than she’d let herself believe.

“I will not lie to you and say that this is an easy existence.” Death’s touch was tender, one hand snaking around her waist as she tipped her head against his shoulder. “Perhaps it was wrong for me to ask you to make that choice, but there was no easy answer. I didn’t want you to lose both of them.”

“You cannot protect me from who I am.” As she said it, the realization of those words sank in. Already Signa had accepted the dark power within her. Still, there would always be that whisper. The one that she had grown up with, that had made her believe everything about her was wrong.

When someone cleared their throat at the doorway, Signa threw herself from Death and spun to look at who had silently entered the room, not having heard the door open. Fortunately, it remained shut; it was Lord Wakefield’s spirit who stared at them from the threshold.

“It’s no wonder you weren’t more interested in my son.” He folded his hands behind his back, not bothering to conceal the judgment in his voice or how the corners of his eyes creased as he assessed Signa, then turned to Death. “No matter how I try to avoid thinking about what might come next, it seems that I keep finding myself gravitating back to you.”

Death extended his hand to the duke. “That’s a good thing. It means you’re ready to join me and leave this place behind.”

The duke didn’t draw forward but instead asked, “Does it hurt to pass on?”

Death’s gentle smile was a brilliant sight. “Not in the slightest.”

It melted Signa’s heart to hear how tenderly he spoke, and she was glad that all the years had not hardened him. The tension in the duke’s fists eased, and he stretched a hand toward Death’s only to pull it away the moment before they touched.

“My son will have to take over my duties,” said Lord Wakefield, the words tumbling out. “I’m not sure I’ve prepared him.”

Again, Death stretched his hand forward. “You’ve done the job you were meant to do. Your son will be fine.”

“The duties are demanding,” he argued. “Perhaps I should stay and watch over him. He won’t rest until my murderer is found.”

“I know,” Signa told him. Given how the last spirit she’d been near had possessed her, she fought every instinct in her body that told her to run when Lord Wakefield’s attention whipped toward her. Although she didn’t know Everett well, she had seen his face as he’d held his father. “I’m sure you’re right about Everett, and I have every intention of helping him find your killer, my lord.” Whether Signa wanted to, Fate had ensured that this was her task to deal with.

It took a moment for the duke to bow his head, out of excuses. His eyes fell to Death’s hand, and this time he took it.

“Take care of him.” The duke’s voice cracked as Death’s shadows wound around him. But before they left, Death cast Signa one final look.

I do not know when or how, he told her, the words little more than a whisper in her mind, but I will find my way back to you soon.

Signa forced a smile, wishing she could easily accept those words. Doubt and loneliness were meant to be things of her past. Yet as the shadows consumed Death and the duke whole, she realized that perhaps this was only their beginning.

As breath settled back into her lungs, Signa adjusted her skirts and slipped on her gloves. The moment she started toward the doors, however, her returning heartbeat fluttered. She stumbled, gripping the edge of a tea table to keep herself upright.

This was far from Signa’s first time tempting death, but this time… Something was different. This time, Signa choked as her breath returned, coughing into her gloves as a fit overcame her. She dug her nails into the wood; it felt as though she’d swallowed shards of glass that were trying to slice their way through her.

Minutes passed before she was able to catch her breath. And when she peeled her hands away from her mouth, breathless and shaking, Signa’s white gloves shone crimson with blood.





THREE





BLYTHE



THE SKY WAS PALE WITH AN ARRIVING DAWN, AND STILL BLYTHE had not heard a word on the status of her father and uncle. She paced the floor of her sitting room, fretting across a thick Persian rug that she couldn’t help but to stomp upon with extra vigor, for its beauty felt noticeably out of place for a night as severe as this one.

Blythe had not yet changed out of her gown, which shimmered as it trailed behind her. How happy she’d been to put it on, finally having an occasion to wear something luxurious. Now, she scowled as it wound around her legs with every twist and turn.

She kept waiting for the click of the doorknob. For Warwick or Signa or someone to arrive with news that her father had returned and that it had all been a misunderstanding. Perhaps it wasn’t cyanide at all, but a heart attack with phenomenally poor timing. She could only pray and hope, because of all the places a man might drop dead, why on God’s green earth did it have to be at Thorn Grove? And why did that man have to be a duke? Blythe had only just begun to feel well enough to venture back into society, and already she was exhausted by the stares and the gossip surrounding her home and family. Her mind swirled with the memory of the shocked faces that had watched Lord Wakefield fall—the faces that had turned their attention to her father as the cause.