“We all are.” Signa hated that she tensed when Charlotte laid a hand on her shoulder. Hated that guilt welled up in her and threatened to leak like a rusted faucet.
She didn’t regret what she’d done or the choice she’d made to end Percy’s life in favor of Blythe’s. But she also didn’t want anyone else knowing about it. Not ever.
“How are you faring?” Charlotte asked, and Signa immediately wished her friend were less kind. That she was as sharp and guarded as she’d been when Signa had first arrived at Thorn Grove last autumn.
“We’re all eager to learn the truth,” Signa said by way of answer, despising the heaviness in her chest. “How is Everett?”
“Still grappling with the gravity of the situation, I think. He’s barely spoken a word since that night.”
Signa may not have been able to remember her parents, but she remembered her grandmother, whom she had loved deeply. She also remembered the pain of losing her, and never again wanted to relive the emotions she knew Everett was enduring.
“The duke’s killer will be found.” Signa filled her voice with such confidence that both Charlotte and Diana straightened as if reproached. Signa didn’t care, for it was the only way to convince herself. She had found a murderer before. Now, she only needed to do it once more. Watching Byron fill out Eliza’s dance card, Signa wondered if Elijah had already set her on the right path.
TEN
BLYTHE
BLYTHE KNEW WHEN SHE WASN’T WANTED. MOSTLY BECAUSE IT was an entirely different experience than the ripe smiles and too-cheerful voices that she was accustomed to. All around her were faces she’d known her entire life, yet not a single person asked how she or her family were faring.
But to be concerned about it would be silly, for being the subject of gossip always had an expiration date and the vultures would move on the moment the next scandal reared its ugly head. And when they decided to welcome her again—when they tried to get on her good side and exchange gossip like it was gold—ha! She would eat them alive. Because Blythe Hawthorne was not nearly as forgiving as her cousin, and she had no desire to be.
She was glad, though, that Signa had agreed to stay at Thorn Grove. Even if she was acting stranger by the day—which was saying a lot, given Signa’s perpetual oddness—Blythe wasn’t certain how she’d manage without her. Selfish though it was, she hoped that Signa would remain with her at Thorn Grove forever, for so long as she had one person on her side, Blythe refused to give a rat’s ass about what anyone else thought. Her feelings about society were akin to her father’s: It was there whenever someone was in need of entertainment, and while it was important to at least make an effort to keep one’s name from the scandal sheets, it mattered little in the grand scheme. So long as she had money and status, the vultures would return to shove their greedy little beaks into her pockets soon enough.
And that was a fine way of things. Blythe didn’t need pity, nor did she need anyone’s protection. For too long she’d been treated like some fragile heirloom meant to sit on a shelf, too precious to be taken out into the world. But she was no delicate artifact, nor the soft doll that her family seemed to think her.
Perhaps that was why when Blythe bit, she bit hard. She was small and still frail from sickness, and because of her blond hair, fair skin, and lips as pink and pretty as a rose, people often dismissed the cleverness of her mind or her ability to handle herself. But high society had been her domain since birth, and she more than knew how to navigate it in whatever way she saw fit. She just… could never quite get herself to care.
Seeing that Signa was distracted—and having realized the prince was not yet in attendance—Blythe had made her escape from the amber ballroom and the whispers. Wisteria Gardens was far brighter than Thorn Grove, and Blythe found herself unable to look away, mesmerized by its boldness. It was lavish, and perhaps even a little gaudy with its extravagance, but everywhere she turned there was something magnificent to catch her eye. Intricate busts carved from marble. Rich oil paintings made from the brightest cobalt and a gold so striking that she could only imagine how much each would cost an eager collector. There was no theme to any of it; every picture and every statue was thoroughly different from all others.
The voices behind her faded as she followed the art down an endless hallway, passing delicate sculptures of butterflies and pottery so ancient it looked as though it belonged to another time. She stopped at the end of the hall, beneath a towering painting of a woman so beautiful that Blythe lost her breath. Like the figure in the courtyard fountain, the woman stood waist-deep in a pond filled with lotus flowers. She tenderly cupped one and stared down at it with such fondness that Blythe felt compelled to step forward to investigate further.