Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(70)
“I am a reaper.” Signa imagined that she was Blythe as she iced over her glare. “I am the night incarnate, the ferrier of souls.” They were the same words that Death had spoken to her all those months ago, on the night of Percy’s death. She’d held them within her for so long, languishing his words. It was time for them to ring true. “Death is at my command. You three would be wise to remember that, and to tell the other spirits as much. Should one try to raise a hand against me or any of my visitors or staff, I will not hesitate to strike. This is my home, and if anyone here does not wish to abide by my rules, they should leave now. Should they break my rules, they will leave without choice, and there will be no future for them. No afterlife. Do you understand?”
Not a single one of the spirits blinked their wide eyes. The younger girl even gripped her father by the sleeve before he nodded to Signa.
Only then did Signa allow herself to turn from them, and toward Death.
“Please give the others that same warning,” she said, bowing her head in a silent thanks as she felt the cold slip away from her, understanding that Death had gone to do just that. Only then, as warmth slipped back into the room as the trio of spirits eased in the absence of Death’s presence, did Signa feel the prickle of eyes along her skin and know there was another watching her even now. She tried to snatch a glance at it, though as she turned, Signa saw only the hem of a dress disappear.
It was the same dress she’d seen when she’d arrived. Not a curtain billowing in the wind as she’d hoped, nor the spirit that had tried to kill her, but someone entirely new. Someone who’d been watching her from the moment she’d entered Foxglove.
Signa didn’t spare the trio another look as she crossed the floor to follow it toward a winding hall.
Though Signa knew better than to chase a spirit—though she had learned her lesson the night she’d followed Lillian into the garden and knew how foolish this was—it seemed that old habits died hard. Because at the end of the hall, Signa followed the faint flickers of blue that urged her forward, deeper and deeper into the bowels of Foxglove.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BLYTHE
IF ONE WANTED TO UNCOVER THE LATEST GOSSIP, THERE WERE TWO places to look:
First, the help. Not because they had any time for gossip, but because they were closest to a household’s best-kept secrets. Considering that so much of Thorn Grove’s staff was new, though, it didn’t seem there was anyone Blythe might be able to con into gossiping with her about what rumors they might have heard in town. Unfortunately, that meant she had to rely solely on her second source—the ladies of the season, who had entirely too much time for gossip, and loved to share whatever tidbits they’d picked up even if they were little more than flaking crumbs.
The morning Signa had left Thorn Grove, Blythe woke to find a note on her desk with a single name written upon it—Byron. It was Signa’s handwriting, and though no further explanation was given, she was certain it was a clue. And while it was better than trying to pluck leads for the duke’s murder out of thin air, part of Blythe wanted to burn the note and cast it from her mind.
Her family was a disaster enough without one more matter to add to the equation, and yet she couldn’t quit thinking about Byron’s behavior when they’d met with Elijah. He certainly seemed frustrated by Elijah’s position, though he also wasn’t out advocating on his brother’s behalf or trying to charm the prince as she had been.
It seemed that the weight of Elijah’s future rested entirely on Blythe’s shoulders, and so she would do what ladies of her age and status were expected to—invite others over for tea.
The only problem was that Blythe wasn’t convinced anyone would show up. She’d spent the morning pacing around her room, then the halls, then the parlor. And when she wasn’t pacing, she was sitting and stewing as nerves she hadn’t anticipated roiled through her.
Sheer desperation had Blythe nearly tumbling over from relief as Warwick entered the parlor with Charlotte Killinger, Eliza Wakefield, and Diana Blackwater in tow. Though Warwick had always been entirely professional, Blythe didn’t miss the extra pep in his step as he led the ladies to a table set for four. He looked as relieved for Blythe as she felt.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” Blythe put on her most practiced smile. Considering both her overwhelming relief and considerable amount of practice, no one could prove it wasn’t genuine. “Warwick, could you please see that tea is brought up?”
He bowed his head and hurried off, leaving the ladies to settle into their seats. Piping hot tea was brought—as well as two trays of dainty sandwiches and sweet pastries—before they could even get out their greetings. Eliza was the first to grab a lemon scone, slathering it with blueberry preserves that Charlotte had brought to share, courtesy of a sudden abundance of berries near her home. Eliza dropped a copious number of sugar cubes into her tea and stirred, stiff and awkward as she brought the cup to her lips.
Charlotte, too, was rigid in her seat. Given the argument between them, Blythe couldn’t blame her. Diana had yet to stir, watching the cup as though it might somehow leap from its saucer and attack her.
Blythe tried not to be offended. She supposed that since she had seen vines and ivy tear through the floor of her father’s study only a few days prior, savage teacups might not be out of the question. Though if one did manage to sprout to life and spray Diana with tea, Blythe might think to thank it.