Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(97)
“Is something wrong with Eliza?” Blythe stuck with Charlotte and Everett, speaking too quietly for the others to hear. “She’s remarkably pale.”
“I’m certain there is, but she won’t tell us what.” Everett didn’t bother to conceal his contempt as he glared at Blythe, widening their berth. She was so taken aback by his ferocity that for a second she stopped walking. The Everett she’d known had always been so polite. She liked him a little better with his scowl, though would have preferred that it not be aimed at her.
“I understand if you’re not the biggest fan of my family,” Blythe began, “but my father is innocent. The wrong man is set to hang.” With each word, Blythe searched Everett for any sign of nerves. Any sign that he was worried Blythe suspected his involvement. And yet he only cut her a scathing look, jaw clenched.
“I’ve no idea how to act around you, Miss Hawthorne, for I do not wish anyone else to suffer as I have. I am sorry that you’re to lose your father, but I cannot be upset by justice.” Everett turned then, hurrying the rest of the way up the steps without any regard for Blythe.
Charlotte stared after him, her lips pressed into a small frown. “We can’t change the verdict, Blythe. Your father was found guilty.”
So ragged was Blythe’s breathing that she’d begun to shake. She folded her hands, pressing them against herself and biting her tongue until she tasted blood. She wanted to tell Charlotte exactly how suspicious she was of each of them but focused instead on the warmth from the tapestry that pulsed against her skin.
She would not give them the time to form clever excuses by giving away her suspicions. Not yet.
Blythe hadn’t noticed they’d arrived inside the ballroom until Charlotte hurried away, leaving her surrounded by strangers in bustling gowns and servants passing gilded trays of dainty sweets and fizzing drinks. Behind her, Eliza was speaking to Signa in low, hushed tones, though her cousin hardly seemed to be paying attention. Signa’s jaw was clenched, and Blythe followed her eyes to one corner of the ballroom, where Death’s shadows were erratic as he moved toward Signa and back again, faster than Blythe’s eyes could keep up with.
Blythe’s heart leaped to her throat when a champagne flute swept from the table beside her and shattered onto the floor. Not even Death had been standing near enough to knock it aside.
Signa’s hands were suddenly gripping her shoulders tight.
“Keep an eye on Eliza,” she said at once. “Promise me you won’t let her out of your sight.”
“What’s going on?” Blythe ducked out of her hold, still looking at the broken glass that was hurriedly swept away. No sooner had the staff finished than another glass fell.
“There’s something I need to take care of. Just keep close to her!”
Before Blythe had the chance to form a single coherent thought, Signa hiked up her skirts and hurried across the ballroom floor.
THIRTY-EIGHT
GOD, WHAT A FOOL SHE’D BEEN. SIGNA KNEW SPIRITS WERE FICKLE beings, just as she knew what happened when they were reminded of their deaths. Perhaps this was why Fate had suggested a party; not to help her, but to damn her further. She should have anticipated what it would mean to bring so many people into Foxglove, filling it with crinoline and dance cards.
She had re-created the night of these spirits’ deaths, and now all of Foxglove was to pay the price.
Everywhere she looked, spirits were rousing from their daze. One of the twins who’d been stuck in a loop of eyeing a group of ladies now crossed the floor to offer his hand to one. She accepted it, and the two swept into a waltz alongside the living. The other twin’s neck twisted to one side, twitching as his brother slipped away from their loop. Signa’s palms went clammy as she watched. Had the man not already been dead, he seemed prone to snapping his own neck.
Behind him, a woman walked straight through Briar, who whipped toward the nearest table, sending a rush of cold air through the room that knocked over more empty champagne flutes and had guests squealing as they scurried away. One older woman went as far as to scream her surprise, and Signa’s skin crawled from the sound.
“Briar?” Amity’s eyes glowed red as she raced toward the spirit, only for Briar to look through her.
“Amity,” Signa whispered as the spirit’s face darkened, having to pause every few steps to smile at guests who murmured their alarm. “Amity, get control of yourself.”
It was no use. Amity was circling Briar, trying to pry the restless spirit from her disillusions. Briar’s body spasmed in response, while tears as black as tar rolled down Amity’s cheeks.
Signa remembered the way Lillian had lost control back in the garden; remembered the way that frogs had marred the trees, their blood spilling down onto the soil. Once a spirit lost control, there was no going back. And the more living bodies that filled Foxglove’s ballroom, the greater that threat became.
Signa had to weave around the second twin as he strayed from his table, following a silver serving tray of petit fours. He blinked when his hand went straight through the tray, then tried again with more focus until he was able to seize a cake for himself. His edges dimmed with the effort, and when he tried to devour the sweet—only for it to fall through him and land on the floor—the spirit’s eyes flashed red. Behind him, Amity screamed at Death, backing away as he held out his hand in offering. She cared only for Briar, who was tugging her hair out by the ends in a fit of distress.