There was little else Signa could do while he was in there, and thus she took to spending many afternoons pricking a needle into her finger, watching the blood swell and then stop seconds later without any sickness. Her powers still worked; it seemed it was only when she crossed the veil and had full access to them that she took ill. Though she knew little of Fate’s abilities, she guessed this situation was somehow his doing. If she didn’t already have enough of a reason to want to beat him at his own game, she certainly did now.
Blythe, too, had put on her detective’s cap, and unlike Signa, she was less distracted with worries of Fate and the image of Elijah hunched and beaten in his cell. However, she also didn’t have all the information, and Signa had no idea how to broach that conversation. Good morning, Blythe. I am a grim reaper who used my powers to visit your father in his cell. He suggested that I investigate your uncle. Would you like to join me in my continued mission of tearing your family apart?
No. If it meant sparing Blythe the pain of such knowledge, Signa would bear the burden of it forever. Just as she intended to do with the truth about Percy.
Blythe spent her mornings and afternoons in the library, reading about poisons and poring over whatever news clippings she could find for murders involving cyanide. She’d spent the first few evenings since Elijah was imprisoned at the dinner table, sharing the details of her findings with whoever would listen. Once Byron realized that she had no intention of discussing more dinner-friendly topics, he instructed the two girls to take their suppers elsewhere so he could have some peace, which meant that evenings quickly turned into Signa cutting into a piece of roast as Blythe discussed—in extraordinary detail—the latest murder she’d read about.
By the time Fate’s soiree rolled around—or rather Prince Aris’s soiree, as that was the name he’d been going by—the day felt as much of a mental reprieve as it did a chance to confront the man face-to-face. Every time Signa read the name and saw those gilded letters, another crinkle marred the invitation.
Elaine had helped Signa ready herself that afternoon, practically glowing as she laced her into a gorgeous satin gown the color of ripe autumn moss and adorned with golden embroidery. The dress was perhaps a few shades too dark for both this year’s style and the season, yet Signa loved the way it reflected back at her in the mirror. It felt rich against her skin and fit her like a glove—tight around the waist and narrowly avoiding a scandal at the bust. As she was unmarried, her hair had been pulled back from her face, twisted and pinned into elegant curls. She loosened a few of them as she inspected herself, wishing that Death would be there to see her. Maybe he would be. Maybe he was already here and trying to warn her not to attend the soiree; with their communication halted, it wasn’t as if she’d know.
“If you don’t have a hundred handsome men asking for your hand by the season’s end, then surely there is no hope for any of us.” Elaine lowered her hands to her hips as she looked Signa over. She was the single rose among the aptly named Thorn Grove these days, and Signa wondered if perhaps it was for her and Blythe’s benefit that Elaine’s cheeks were so rosy and her smile so bright, to make up for the foulness that plagued the manor. But the more time that passed, the more genuine it seemed. When Signa had first met Elaine, the young woman had been quiet and reserved. Now she hummed when she strolled the halls and shared stories of happy news whenever she delivered tea. Though her cheerfulness was sometimes odd, such grim circumstances made it that much more appreciated.
As for the comment about the men… Signa smoothed out her long white kid gloves, never having realized they could be so interesting. Her wealth was no secret, and with the Hawthornes feeding her as well as they had been, Signa had filled out in a lovely way. Her skin was suppler than when she’d first arrived at the manor, and though there were some who still considered her eyes with great skepticism—for one was a winter’s blue and the other a melted gold—Signa knew she was pretty enough to draw interest. However, knowing that she couldn’t summon Death whenever she wanted had her yearning for him even more, and seeking the attention of others less than ever.
“Oh, don’t make such a face,” Elaine chided, looking at Signa’s reflection in the mirror in front of them. “If this is about Mr. Everett Wakefield, even I know he’s keen on you. I’m certain that once Mr. Hawthorne is proved innocent, all will be well. Though, if you ask me, I say why not go for the prince, instead? Especially if he’s handsome.”