“Must I be formal around you, too, cousin?” Blythe admonished. Signa had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making a retort. Blythe was clever; if she thought Signa was withholding information, she’d sniff out the truth like a bloodhound. It was a relief when Blythe continued, with only a slight edge in her voice, “I’m surprised Eliza came at all. If she keeps it up, it won’t be long before the vultures descend on her.”
Though Signa was no fan of Eliza—the young woman had always been the worst of the gossips, and perhaps the most judgmental of any of the ladies Signa had met thus far—she understood better than most that grief could make a person do unfathomable things.
“I assure you it’s the season that’s changing her behavior, not her grief,” Blythe added, as though she could read Signa’s thoughts plainly upon her face. “The moment she heard that a prince was entering the fray, she turned as eager as a mama. Did you see her neckline?”
“Have you seen mine?” Signa motioned toward the bodice of her dress, and Blythe reached forward to grip Signa by the knee.
“Precisely my point! Your atrocious behavior aside, we came here with every intention of seducing a prince, and so did she. Or that viscount, at the very least. It seems a strange thing to be focused on with her uncle’s death, doesn’t it? He was the closest thing to a father that Eliza had.”
It was a little peculiar, just as it was peculiar that she’d spent so much time near Byron whenever she wasn’t dancing. Still, even before Lord Wakefield’s death, Signa had witnessed Eliza’s change in demeanor the moment she’d debuted into society. She’d wanted a match her first year out, which wasn’t something Signa could hold against her. After all, hadn’t Signa hoped that for herself once, too?
“It’s worth keeping an eye on her,” Signa agreed. “Though I don’t see what motive she would have to kill the duke.”
Blythe sighed and slipped on her gloves. “No, I suppose she wouldn’t have one. She did rather enjoy parading through town on his arm. He always bought her the prettiest dresses.”
Perhaps there was a motive to find, though it seemed like a stretch. Every suspect seemed like a stretch. Finding the killer felt like little more than a wild-goose chase, and while Byron was at the top of her list, the pieces weren’t fitting together. She wanted to tell Blythe what she’d noticed between him and Eliza Wakefield, but Blythe had been through enough when it came to her family; Signa didn’t want her to feel betrayed by her uncle, too.
The road beneath their carriage had smoothed as they journeyed down the mountainside. When the conversation lulled, Blythe rested her head against the window and shut her eyes. After a few moments she was breathing deeply. Signa leaned back, sprawling her legs beneath the dress and then frowning, for the action reminded her of when she’d first started speaking to Death—to Sylas. The two of them had been in a train car when he’d spread his obscenely long legs, as rude as could be.
God, how she wished he could be with her now.
Gazing out the window, she caught glimpses of a beautiful blue moon through towering alder trees. Staring at it brought back memories of autumn. Of riding horseback beneath the stars with Sylas by her side. The breeze had nipped at her skin, and she could still recall the wry grin on his face as he’d tipped his head back to the sky and howled with Gundry.
She hadn’t wanted him to know about her escapades at Wisteria Gardens, especially considering he’d begged her not to go. But she missed him, and there was no saying how long Fate’s agreement would last. Signa didn’t want to wait until she was back at Thorn Grove before she spoke with Death; like Blythe, she tipped her own head against the carriage window and shut her eyes.
Do you intend to tell me the rest of the story about your brother? she asked. Or shall I sit and ponder the ending for all of eternity?
Signa waited, stilling her foot when she noticed its nervous tapping. Perhaps this was all for nothing. Perhaps Death still wouldn’t be able to hear her, and this was little more than Fate’s cruel joke. It seemed an eternity had passed before Signa’s eyes prickled with tears as she felt his attention home in on her. She hadn’t always been able to tell when Death was there listening, but ever since shared thoughts had become their most frequent form of communication, Signa had learned to sense his small subtleties—a quiet hum in her body. A prickling of her senses, suddenly more attuned to his.
Oh, Little Bird, how I’ve missed you. Though he may not have been with her in person, Death’s voice was a balm that soothed Signa all the same. She was glad Blythe was asleep, for there was no masking her grin. She swiped at her eyes, savoring the moment.