“My love for you is not confined to time, nor fate,” she continued. “It is a love that I will hold with me for an eternity, which is why I am not afraid. I swear to you that I will always be yours, even when I am not.”
Death’s reflection grew hazy upon the mirror, wisps of shadows smearing the glass. “You are a fool to think that I could so easily let you go.” He clenched his jaw tight, curling a finger around the loose baby hairs at her neck. He slid that same finger down her arm until his fingers laced through hers. Death’s expression had hardened, a new resolve settling over him as he ushered her toward the door. “Come, Little Bird. It’s time for us to visit my brother one last time.”
Though she knew nothing good could come of it, there was little choice but to let Death lead the way.
Foxglove was still in disarray from the ball the night prior, champagne flutes abandoned on the mahogany banister and rugs strewn about, their edges folded over. She and her staff had put so much into Foxglove this past month, and for what? To let some strangers disrespect her home just so she could lose it? Signa gritted her teeth at the thought.
Everything within her hardened at the sight of Fate waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t once acknowledge his brother’s presence even as Death’s rage turned the floor to sleet. “It’s past dawn,” was all Fate said, his face severe as he took in her choice of dress. “You’re late.”
Death answered before she could. “We were busy.”
Signa gave his hand a squeeze of reproach, but holding back Death was no better than fighting a storm. The clouds darkened with each step they took toward the parlor, and when they came close enough to see the tapestry laid out on the table, Signa knew that the best thing she could do was to release her hold on the reaper.
Fate was ready, a golden light emitting from his skin as Death threw him against the wall. The light cleaved Death’s shadows as Fate matched his brother and took him by the throat.
“I gave you your night.” Though Fate spoke with a remarkable calm, every word was lethal. “Signa and I made a blood oath, brother, and you’ve gotten more from it than you deserve.”
The stairs creaked behind them, and Signa stilled when she caught sight of Blythe peeking around the corner, still dressed in her evening wear from the prior night. The sight of her had Signa’s throat swelling. She was about to turn away in the hope that her cousin would return to her room when Signa saw that Blythe’s eyes were bloodshot. Blythe hurried down the stairs before Signa could stop her and grabbed hold of her cousin’s hands.
“I’m so sorry,” Blythe whispered at once, mindful of her uncle and the Wakefields still sleeping upstairs. “I never should have put this on you. I never should have let Aris give me that tapestry.” She turned to glare at the thing, breathing so hard that Signa tightened her grip to steady her.
“It’s all right,” Signa said, and she meant it. For the Hawthornes, this was a sacrifice worth making.
Fate had taken care with the tapestry, laying parchment paper beneath the threads to catch her blood. Signa stilled at the sight of a small switchblade that rested beside it, able to smell the alcohol that he’d used to clean it.
Death and Fate still had each other by the throat, and Signa knew there was no time to wait. If she hurried, Death wouldn’t be able to stop her. He wouldn’t have to watch.
“I need you to know that I only ever wanted what was best for your family.” Signa pushed the words out, forcing herself to command Blythe’s attention. “I never wanted to hurt Percy. I loved him, Blythe, I truly did. I wanted him to be my family, too.”
Blythe held Signa tighter as she asked, “Then why did you do it?”
Signa forced herself to smile as she let Blythe’s hand slip from hers. “Because you deserved to live. You deserve the world, Blythe, and I hope that you take it.” Plain and simple, that was the truth. Signa turned before she could see Blythe’s eyes swell with tears, crossing to the table to take hold of the switchblade. It was smooth and cold beneath her hands, and she flipped it open with a shudder, remembering the night of Percy’s death and that he’d tried to attack her with a blade just like this one.
She clasped the knife tight in her hands, shaking the memory from her mind. From somewhere behind her, the men seemed to notice her new position. Death yelled something inaudible as he hurried toward her, his words drowned out by the rushing of her blood as she lifted the sharpest point of the blade to her finger and pricked the skin.