“Your taste was impeccable, Mother,” she whispered to the room, skimming a finger across one of the diamonds before returning it to the safety of the jewelry box. There was so much more to investigate, though for now Signa shut the lid and let her eyes fall to a snuff box nearby. There was nothing in it but a mother-of-pearl inlay, nor did it look like it had seen much use. It was carved of solid horn and had her father’s initials engraved into the bottom. She smiled as she examined it, realizing that her father’s fondness for beautiful, curious things extended well beyond architecture.
It seemed she had her mother’s sense of style, and her father’s taste for the obscure. She held the snuff box against her chest, feeling close to them for the first time. If she shut her eyes and let herself believe, she imagined her mother coming in to scold Signa for wearing her jewelry without permission while her father explained all the details she’d never thought to learn about a simple snuff box.
One day she would see them again. One day she would learn what sort of people they truly were. Until then, she had Foxglove to fill in the gaps. Though it had been difficult—for things were new and strange and far from perfect—Signa hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was where she was meant to spend the rest of her life.
She set down the snuff box and moved to the sitting room. It was filled with journals that, just as Amity had promised, contained her father’s drawings. She thumbed through the original designs for Foxglove, then of the garden. Some were done in a strange, scratchy style similar to the portraits throughout the manor, and her chest warmed at the realization that they’d all been done by his hand. There were sketches of Rima, too, and one of them with Signa as a baby curled in her mother’s arms.
Signa stared at it for a long while, convinced that her heart had stopped. She’d never seen anything with them together. There were probably more portraits, somewhere. Perhaps one with all three of them.
She leaned against the desk, leafing through sketches when the music of the ballroom swelled from above. There were voices, too. Guests making their way inside, likely searching for a host who wasn’t there to greet them.
Signa was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the bitter cold leaching into the room. Only when she heard his stirring did she turn to see that Death stood behind her in his human form. Her fingers slipped from the sketchbook, and when she turned to him fully, it was with tears in her eyes.
“Are you all right?” His voice wasn’t in her head. It was spoken aloud, and that was enough for Signa’s tears to come faster. Her body ached to run to him, and this time she did not hesitate to give in to that desire. Death went still as she locked her arms around his waist and pressed in.
“Signa…”
“I’m tired of goodbyes.” Signa burrowed her face into his chest. “I won’t say another one. We have to put an end to this. We need to stop—” She snapped her mouth shut with sudden realization.
It wasn’t unheard of for Death to appear. Large crowds were one of the best chances she had to see him, and tonight she’d not only invited the entire town but also guests from Celadon.
Tonight she had invited almost every single person in this world that she cared for.
Signa drew back, ice in her veins. She held on to the edge of the nightstand, her stomach sick. “Who is it? Who are you here for?”
Death took her gloved hand tight. Not lovingly, Signa realized, but to steady her as he answered, “I’ve come for Eliza Wakefield.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
BLYTHE
FOXGLOVE WAS MAZE OF A MANOR, WHERE EVERY ROOM FELT LIKE its own story.
The bottom floor portrayed an unassuming seaside home decorated with gentle blues and lattice trim, yet as one made their way upward, the home shifted into themes of flora and fauna with darkening wallpaper that grew wilder the closer one got to the grand ballroom.
Byron gave no sign of his own opinions of the manor. He’d hardly spoken two words to Blythe since Elijah’s verdict, and the gloom upon his face had grown increasingly darker by the day.
She’d separated from him the moment they’d arrived at Foxglove, and Byron had seemed relieved for it. Left to her own devices, Blythe searched for shadows as she scoured the manor’s lowest floor, careful to keep herself beneath the glittering glow of the chandelier. She cast paranoid glances over her shoulders, expecting Death to be waiting for her.
How many times had she escaped him now? Was he angry? Would he try to take her again the first chance he got?