The man looked at war with himself, veins pulsing in his forearms as he clenched his hands. Eventually, he turned to Signa. “If you want my help, then throw a party.” It was far from the response she expected, and Signa recoiled when Fate stepped so close that she could feel the warmth of his body press against her skin. “Do as I say and get everyone in the same room, Miss Farrow, and you will get your answers. Just don’t be angry at me when they’re not the ones you wished for.”
Fate did not allow Signa time to ask the thousands of questions that burned her lips but turned on his heel and saw himself out of Foxglove.
“Do you think he’s being sincere?” she asked Death instead, taking hold of his arm as he approached. She curled her fingers into him to steady herself, already finding that her breaths came easier simply because he was there beside her.
Death did not turn his face from the hall where Fate had disappeared, though his shadows shrank with the retreating threat. “I think that no matter what my brother says, it’s safe to assume that he’s always up to something.”
That much was clear enough. If Fate wanted to, he could give her the answers she sought. Instead, she felt as though she was falling deeper and deeper into a cleverly spun web, waiting to be feasted on.
“Would it truly be so bad for me to revive Elijah?” She gripped him tight, unsure how much longer they’d have together. “It couldn’t possibly be any worse than dealing with your brother.”
Death’s shadows swept toward Signa. He pulled her against him in a sudden rush, and oh how she wanted to kiss him. Yet Death kept his face at a distance, mindful of her bare skin. “Foolish as my brother may be, for once I agree with him. You have seen firsthand the cost of keeping someone alive, Little Bird. Imagine what the cost might be for bringing them back from the dead.”
Truthfully, Signa never wanted to find out. Still, frustration ate at her, nerves bundling in her stomach. “What then? We continue to play his game?”
“We continue to play his game,” Death echoed, tucking the silver strands behind her ear and cupping her face between his gloved palms. “Only this time, we play to the end.”
THIRTY-FIVE
BLYTHE
TWO DAYS AFTER HER FATHER HAD BEEN SENTENCED TO HANG, Blythe received an invitation.
She held it tight, reading the words once, twice, then three times more before the reality of them settled over her.
Signa Farrow had invited her to a ball. The woman who had killed her brother—but who Blythe now understood was being influenced by Death himself—had invited both her and Byron to attend a soiree at Foxglove little more than a week before her father was set to hang.
For the first half hour Blythe spent staring at the invitation, she had done so while inwardly fuming at Signa’s gall. The next half hour she brainstormed what ulterior motives could possibly be at play. Finally, she set the invitation down on the table and took to pacing around the drawing room. With every step she was all too aware of the small tapestry tucked beneath her corset.
During the weeks that Signa had been gone, Blythe had spent every day filling her diary with theories while coming to terms with the fact that there would be no more social calls to scrounge up for herself. She could barely show her face in tea shops since her father’s verdict, and following the gossip had become near impossible. As much time as she spent plotting ways to break the news about Everett’s potential motive and cast a doubtful light upon him, she doubted there was a single person alive who’d believe her. Which meant that after everything she’d done, Blythe had nothing to show for sleuthing other than a horrifying skeletal hallucination of Eliza Wakefield burned into her brain and a tapestry that could change her fate.
It was warm against her skin, the threads around it more visible by the day. Blythe should have been surprised by all she’d learned or by the ease with which Aris had controlled her. Yet why should she be surprised when she herself had seen the shadows that trailed behind her cousin, and how both her lady’s maid and Eliza had looked sickly and skeletal one moment only to be perfectly healthy the next? Blythe had seen threads of gold sewed into the air itself, and hands that could take a life as easily as they could give one. She believed everything Aris had told her.
He was a strange man, and while she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, Blythe couldn’t help but recall his determination as he’d stomped through the woods to save a fox he’d then held bundled in his arms. He couldn’t be that bad. He was powerful, yes, but so was Signa. Besides, far less favorable marriages had been made before. Even if Signa was angry—even if Death’s hold on her was so fierce that she retaliated—Blythe would be doing her a favor. By the end of this mess, perhaps Signa would realize that. Perhaps things between them could someday return to normal, and Blythe wouldn’t have to lose her, too.