There was barely a second in which Signa could have sworn that Blythe’s attention whipped toward Death. She thought she saw the girl’s eyes widen, but soon enough Blythe was bent toward Eliza, squeezing her hand.
Signa’s chest felt as though it had been struck by a hot iron. They’d been seconds away from having an alibi to save her uncle. But they couldn’t turn Eliza in; not when she was the mother of Percy’s child and the last part of him that still existed in this world. Signa couldn’t take that from the Hawthornes, too.
“You’re going to be fine.” Signa tried to imitate the familiar tone Death used to placate restless spirits, though she was doing a lousy job with her wavering voice. “If you choose to keep the child, tell Everett. He’s a good man. But if for some reason he chooses not to be, you and your child will have a home here at Foxglove should you need it. And if you choose not to have the child, then we’ll find a safer way to help you without those herbs.”
Signa stood, seizing hold of Eliza’s wrist and helping the girl to her feet. Eliza’s body was as light as a feather, and though she seemed remarkably improved, she still swayed with each step.
“We’ll make sure Everett knows not to worry about you,” Signa promised as she wiped some of the dirt away from Eliza’s brow, thinking through an inconspicuous way to get her safely into a guest suite. “Know that you will be fine, Eliza, and so will your child. You won’t be left alone.”
“Why would you protect me?” Eliza asked, more a demand than a question, with each word tense and clipped. “As much as we may pretend, we are not friends. I’m the reason your uncle is in prison.”
It was fair to ask, though Signa had no answer to give. Had the father of this child been anyone else, would she still protect Eliza? Blythe would have probably thrown her to the wolves to save her father, and wouldn’t that have been fair, too?
“You did everything to protect yourself and your child. I can’t fault you for that.” There was no true and correct path that she could see, but this one felt the most right.
Eliza stared at her for a long moment, eventually reaching forward to clasp Signa by the hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking as though she was about to say more when a heavy thudding sounded behind them.
Signa recognized Byron’s footsteps before she saw him, his walking stick clutched tight as he looked to Eliza with such a rawness that Signa worried she’d mistaken him for someone else. He hurried through the garden, poppies crushing beneath his boots as he took hold of her shoulders. Byron was no fool; one look at the blood and mud on her gown was enough for his eyes to mist. His lips trembled, opening to try to find words when Eliza steadied her hand over the one that fisted his walking stick.
“We’re fine,” she whispered, shifting her free hand to her belly. “Both of us.”
Thank God they were near a tree, for Byron had to reach out to balance himself, threatening to crumble beneath the weight of his relief.
“They’re aware?” he asked coolly, to which Eliza nodded.
“They are. And it’s because of them that I am well, so do mind your tongue, Byron.”
Blythe and Signa shared a look, though Blythe was quick to turn away. Already he was shrugging out of his coat to drape it around Eliza.
“I’ll fetch a maid to help clean you up,” he promised, voice low with sincerity. “No one will know anything about this.”
It seemed even a man as severe as Byron could be undone by a baby.
“Find Miss Bartley,” Signa noted. “She won’t tell anyone what she’s seen.”
He nodded, waiting until Eliza gained her footing enough to loop her arm through his before making the short trek back to Foxglove. The fog enveloped them like a wanting maw, and any hope Signa had left faded as it swallowed their figures whole.
This was truly the end, then. Without anyone to pin the blame on, Elijah would hang.
Blythe seemed to be thinking the same thing, for she stepped forward. “My father can’t be made to take the fall.” Any trace of emotion had disappeared beneath her mask of stone. She reached into her corset and pulled out a small swath of gold fabric, which she held out to Signa with the utmost severity. “We only have one way to fix this.”
Around them, Death turned the world to ice as Blythe held her cousin’s stare.
It couldn’t be what she thought it was… and yet when Signa took the tapestry, the heat of it stung so sharply that she dropped it and clutched her hand to her chest to nurse an invisible wound. “What is that?”