Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(87)
Aris’s jaw tightened as the fox shifted out of his lap and moved instead to nestle beside him. “There is. But are you certain you want to know who it is?”
She had her suspicions, and though she wasn’t certain that she wanted to hear the words aloud, Blythe forced herself to nod all the same.
“It’s Death himself that you’ve seen,” Aris said, his jaw flexing when Blythe stopped breathing.
Signa had spoken to that figure so tenderly. So lovingly.
“They’re together, aren’t they?” So light-headed was she that Blythe had to brace herself. “Is he why she’s like this? Is he why she killed my brother?”
Aris stood so quickly that Blythe barely had time to brandish the poker, its white-hot tip a mere inch from his throat. He glared down at her, as still as marble.
“With Death, your cousin is a reaper. With him, she will take the very lives she was meant to create. But with me, she could be so much more. That’s why I’m trying to save her, Miss Hawthorne.” Aris held his hands up, placating Blythe when she drew back. “All we have to do is convince her of that truth.”
“Can you do the same things she can?” Her voice was tight, and it took a great amount of will not to have it squeak. “Is that why you want to marry her?”
“It’s the powers that gave life to the foal that I prefer. But no, I cannot do the same things she can. I can control fate. From the moment a person is born, I weave their fate onto a tapestry. I can alter them, too.”
Signa must have known the truth. It’s why she’d tried to keep Blythe from Wisteria and why she’d had such a severe reaction to Blythe being near Aris. Signa had known, and she’d never told her.
“So you are the one responsible for what happened to my father?” The question fractured in her throat, and Aris frowned at such a pathetic sound.
“That’s like asking if I’m responsible for every time the earth quakes or a person catches a cold. Perhaps to some degree I am, but I didn’t force this to happen, and I’ve no vendetta against you or your family. I do not meddle in the affairs of humans when I can avoid it.”
“But you know what will happen to him. Don’t you?” Never had she looked at someone so closely, as if trying to read his very soul for confirmation of her suspicions. Though he gave no answer, the pity in his eyes told her enough.
Blythe let the poker drop to the floor. She wound her arms around her stomach, fighting to hold herself in while the truth shattered around her.
“You’re going to need my help, Miss Hawthorne.” Blythe hated how desperately she clung to each of Aris’s words, and she knew in that moment that should Aris ask for the sun, she would find a way to give it to him. For her father, Blythe would give everything.
“Today, your father will be sentenced to hang. He’ll have two weeks to live before they come for him—two weeks for you to get me Miss Farrow’s hand. If you do, I promise that Elijah Hawthorne will be spared.” As if from thin air, Aris produced a small piece of what appeared to be a golden tapestry, which he handed to her. It was warm to the touch, and so uncomfortably strange—almost alive—that she had to fight the urge to drop it. The longer she stared at it, the brighter the threads became, a halo of gold surrounding them when she squinted.
“What is this?” She stroked her thumb across the threads, tensing when she noticed that Aris shuddered. He reached forward to touch her gloved hand, stilling it around the tapestry.
“The deal will be made when Miss Farrow places a drop of her blood upon those threads. It will bind her as my wife, though the offer must be made willingly.”
Blythe wanted so badly to hate Signa for what she’d done to her family, and yet… maybe none of this was Signa’s fault. Maybe she’d had no choice in taking Percy, and Death was to blame.
Blythe had lost a brother, but she would not lose her father. And perhaps… perhaps she did not have to lose her cousin, either.
Tucking the tapestry against her chest, Blythe took her first easy breath in months. And with her exhale she made a bargain with Fate.
THIRTY-THREE
TWO DAYS HAD PASSED SINCE SIGNA HAD HELPED HENRY MOVE ON to the afterlife.
She’d returned to Foxglove, unable to focus on anything but the comforting warmth spreading through her despite being windswept with her cheeks reddened from the thrashing gale.
Yet the happier and more settled she became in her new home, the guiltier she felt as the days continued to tick by without any reprieve for Elijah. Why should she feel at peace when he was still trapped in a cell, curled on the cold stone floor and alone in the darkness? Death had been watching over him, ensuring there was no more abuse and that Elijah at least received his meals, but it wasn’t enough. With every passing day, she felt further from the truth than ever.
She had to do something, which was why she stood in the garden, her fingertips resting on the twig of a juniper bush.
“Are you sure you weren’t simply imagining that you have other powers?” Amity asked from where she lay on a blanket of poppies, her hair strewn about the flowers. “You’ve been trying for an awfully long time.”
Considering that the sun was headed west and Signa had been out there well since dawn, that was an understatement. As she crouched before the dried juniper and gripped its naked branches, she willed the powers of Life to fill her. Yet every time she tried, the blood in her veins thrummed with longing for her reaper powers, instead. Her body was overly aware of all the souls that waited inside, pulled toward them now more than ever since that night with Henry. She tried to ignore their calls, for it was Life’s powers that she needed, not the reaper’s.