“I have conditions. First, your communication with Death will only be restored during the evenings after you and I meet.”
When she opened her mouth to argue, his lifted brows halted her protest. It seemed this deal was as good as it was going to get. “And you swear to honor this bargain?”
“Of course I do.” Each word was clipped. “It matters little in the grand scheme of things. Eventually you will remember me, and when you do you’ll decide to stop communication with him on your own. That will be better than any revenge I could imagine.”
Signa’s breath burned her throat. He was too confident. Too calculated. But what choice did she have? “Very well. Count tonight as our first outing, and I accept.” She spoke so quietly that she wouldn’t have been certain she’d said the words aloud if not for the sight of Fate’s grin. While she’d thought he was enigmatic before, it was like she’d flipped a switch with those last two words. He was practically glowing.
“Deals with Fate are binding, Miss Farrow. When I wish to collect, you must be ready.” He spoke as though he was savoring every word.
Signa had read enough fairy stories to know not to agree so easily. “Three events or outings are all you get. And after that, you’ll restore my ability to communicate with Death in full.”
His laugh had shivers rolling up her spine. “A month,” he corrected, “during which I may call upon you multiple times.”
It was less time than she’d expected, though still long enough that Signa did not have to fake her frustration. “Very well,” she agreed, “but I have one more question you must answer first—who killed Lord Wakefield?”
To her surprise, Fate’s grin never wavered. “There is no more music, and we are no longer dancing.” All at once bodies twisted toward the doors, the guests marching like soldiers down the stairs. “I hope that your evening was as lovely as mine. I will see you again soon, Miss Farrow.”
She did not linger or allow herself to spend so much as a second reconsidering the situation she’d gotten herself into. As the rest of the guests filed out of the ballroom, Signa gathered her skirts and fled Wisteria Gardens.
THIRTEEN
SIGNA FOUND BLYTHE SLUMPED IN THE CARRIAGE, LOOKING LIKE she’d been to hell and back—they both did.
“Where were you?” Signa demanded as she slammed the carriage door shut, much to the surprise of the driver, who had leaned forward to do the same thing.
Blythe blinked. Once, and then again. “I… dancing, I think? It was so warm that I must have come out here for air.” She took her time with each word, piecing them together like a puzzle.
She didn’t remember. Of course she didn’t remember.
Signa’s head fell back against the seat as she tried to decide whether to be angry or relieved. Eventually she huffed, “It felt like we were dancing in the devil’s armpit,” hoping to placate Blythe’s unease. “Byron is already in the carriage behind us. Everyone’s leaving.”
“So early?” Blythe frowned, mental wheels still turning. She glanced out the window to a sky as black as pitch. “Where on earth has the time gone?”
Only when the driver snapped the reins and the horses began their descent down the mountain did Signa allow herself a proper breath. Blythe, however, fretted at her fingernails, absently picking at the cuticles.
While they’d both taken great care with their appearance that morning, Blythe’s pale blond hair looked as though she’d been hunted through the woods. A halo of stray baby hairs were strewn around her face at every angle, and her fair cheeks were deeply flushed. For her part, Signa could feel that every square inch of her skin was sticky, and she imagined any powders or rouge she’d bothered with that morning had probably all but melted away.
“Did you learn anything?” Blythe asked as she tipped her head against the window. Signa pressed against the window, too, trying to catch one last look at the fountain in the courtyard. The sculpture of a woman who looked so unlike herself that Signa scratched at her arms and tried to dispel the possibility from her mind.
It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be.
“Only more rumors,” Signa answered. “Charlotte was there. Eliza, too.”
“Not even in her mourning wear,” Blythe noted. “Odd, don’t you think? She couldn’t keep her eyes off Aris, even while she danced with Lord Bainbridge all evening.”
Signa’s blood froze. “Aris? Don’t you mean the prince?”