It was an effort to keep her face smooth of the surprise that stole her breath. Surely, Blythe wouldn’t have told him such things; she barely knew Aris.
“I suppose this makes today’s conversation easier, then.” She fisted her dress when she caught herself picking at her cuticles. “I didn’t invite you here to make good on our bargain. I called you here because I need a favor.”
God, how she hated those words. Hated the gleam in his eyes as he tipped his chin to assess her.
“You know I don’t give anything for free, Miss Farrow.” He leaned against the cushion, propping his elbow on a pillow as Signa stepped from Death’s comforting chill and crossed to him.
“I assure you that this is a bargain you’ll like.” She glanced once behind her, wishing more than ever that she could see Death’s face in the shadows, needing his reassurance. Inviting Fate into Foxglove felt like slipping farther and farther from Death’s reach, but what choice did she have? For Elijah—for Blythe—she had to try.
“I need you to teach me how to use Life’s powers.”
Signa expected his face to turn smug. Expected his grin to stretch, or for him to look toward his brother and say something that would turn the floor to ice. What she got instead was a man who straightened as she looked at him, wearing not a hint of smugness as he told her, “Nothing would make me happier.”
Signa’s rage had her holding her breath as she took in his tailored pants and strange billowing white top that didn’t fit this era, and the earnestness on his face. She wanted him to be smug. Wanted a reason to despise him even while he was helping her. He was a bastard for giving her nothing.
“I may have Life’s powers,” she warned, “but nothing else has changed. I will not be made one of your toys, Fate. Do you understand?”
There was no nod. No argument. Fate only motioned to the cushion beside him and said, “Have a seat, Miss Farrow.”
It took a moment before she did, pressed fully against the opposite end of the settee with her hands bundled in her lap.
“I can’t promise to know everything about how it works.” Fate’s voice was smoother than ever and far more sincere than she’d been prepared for, each word echoed by the beat of the music Signa was trying to pry from her head. “I only know what you used to tell me—”
“I never used to tell you anything,” she sniped. If he was looking for her to waver or to see what he might be able to get away with, she wouldn’t allow him to find it so easily.
“Life told me.” He plucked a withered rose from a vase on the tea table. “Unless you plan to argue with me through the evening, close your eyes and envision what you want this flower to turn into. Grow the vision like a seed in your mind, and then set your hand upon the stem.”
She shut her eyes, opened one to confirm that he wasn’t trying anything scandalous, then shut it again and filled her mind’s eye with the image of a rose, its red petals plump and its thorns piercing enough to draw blood. She envisioned healthy green leaves and an unbendable stem. Once she was certain that the vision she wanted was at the forefront of her mind, she reached her hand out and let Fate press the rose into her palm. A thorn pressed against her skin, though it bent and flaked off without the slightest prick, not one drop of blood spilled.
Fate inhaled so sharply at their touch that for a moment Signa’s vision splintered, though she gathered herself once more and curled her fingers around the rose. She waited. And waited. And waited until she could no longer take it and cracked one eye open.
“Nothing happened.” Fate scratched at his jaw with one hand as he used the other to lift the rose up to investigate. “It hasn’t grown one bit.”
“I can see it just as well as you can.” Signa opened her eyes fully. “If you weren’t so noisy, perhaps I could have kept my concentration.”
“Noisy? Explain to me how I could have possibly been noisy when all I did was hand you this emaciated rose. Why do you even have dead flowers in your home?”
“Do forgive me. I apologize that my mind has been preoccupied by the imminent death of my uncle when I should have instead been clipping fresh flowers in preparation of your arrival.”
His scoff had enough force to carry through the room. Even the hearth’s flames shuddered in his rage. “It’s no wonder you and Miss Hawthorne were close. You’re both barbaric. I cannot control my breathing, Miss Farrow, if that’s what annoyed you. I may be immortal, but my body is still that of a living man’s. I’m sorry to disappoint, but I am not like your precious Death.”