With his square jaw shadowed by flickering candles, Fate’s princely face broke with the smallest crack of pain. There one moment and gone when she next blinked, just like the palace.
“Death doesn’t deserve happiness.” The music was coming to a crescendo, and Fate hastened their dancing until they were moving so quickly that Signa’s vision began to blur.
“What of me?” she demanded. “Does my happiness mean nothing?”
“On the contrary, Miss Farrow, it means everything.”
Signa was panting for air by the time the music stopped, sweat beading her temples and gliding down her back. Fate didn’t have a hair out of place.
“It’s my turn to ask a question,” he said at last, so quiet she had to strain to hear him. “When you heard that song just now, did you recognize it?”
She riffled through her mind, hoping to find something there to appease him. The answer he wanted was clear, and with so much at stake, she wanted little more than to give it to him. But no matter how much she strained—no matter how much she looked upon him or let his skin sear hers—nothing about this man was familiar.
“I’ve heard many songs in my life. I can’t be expected to remember them all.”
Fate ran his palms down his face, groaning into them. Only when his shoulders eased and his anger ebbed did he extend a hand. “Please.” It was a plea, gentle as a lullaby. “Take it and we’ll try it again. I need you to remember. I need you to listen, and to remember who I am.”
Signa drew back, tucking her hands close to her sides. “Who you are?” Perhaps her initial impression of Fate wasn’t as far off the mark as she’d thought. “I would know if I’d met you before.”
Fate didn’t withdraw his hand but instead pressed it forward as his stare bore into her. “No, Miss Farrow, you might not. Not if we met in another lifetime.”
TWELVE
IT DIDN’T FEEL APPROPRIATE TO LAUGH. NOT AT THE SITUATION, NOR at the man who had bared his soul to her and seemed terrified of what she might do with it. And so Signa didn’t laugh despite how it bubbled nervously within her, for this was one of the most preposterous things she’d ever heard.
“You’re not saying anything.” Fate’s jaw flexed. “Please, say something.”
Signa opened her mouth, only for the words to curdle like cream upon her tongue. He was Fate—he knew how a person’s life would play out, just as he must have known who was behind Lord Wakefield’s murder and how they might save Elijah. Signa may not have been the person he wanted her to be, but she also couldn’t afford to have this man as her enemy.
“You think I’m… what? Your reincarnated lover?” Her mouth felt as raw as if she’d swallowed glass as Fate closed the space between them. “Why on earth would you think it’s me?”
“For every human life, there is a tapestry that defines their fate,” he said. “On yours were threads of silver that I did not sew. My threads are gold while Death’s are black. And yours… yours have always been silver.”
She didn’t look at him as he spoke, but at the glistening gold threads around them. They were everywhere. He had stilled every body in the room. Had brought time to a standstill. And yet, even with all that, there wasn’t so much as a bead of sweat on his brow.
She’d always known that Death was powerful, though his abilities often came in large, sudden bursts—sharp wind, or a deadly touch. Fate’s power felt more consuming. It was infinite and terrifying, and all Signa could do was ease her hand toward the belladonna berries she carried with her.
“There are not enough colors in this world for every person to have their own,” she whispered. “So why do I?”
Signa stilled as Fate took her chin between two fingers and tipped her head back so that she could look only at him. “Because you’re not a regular human, and you’re not a reaper, either. You are Life, and you have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you.” He had a look in his eyes that almost made Signa draw back when she realized what it was—hunger. Like he was a starved man, and she was a feast laid before him.
Life.
Life.
This time, Signa could not control the laugh that escaped her. She threw both hands over her mouth, smothering the sound, but it was too late. He thought she was Life? Good God, where had he been these past several months?
Fate’s eyes narrowed, deep lines knitting between his brows. “You do not feel a pull toward Death because you are a reaper, Miss Farrow. You feel a pull toward him because he’s the one who took you from me. In another time, you were my wife.”