Blythe didn’t need a path to know where she was going. She could make her way through the woods by the bend of the branches or by which trees browned with each waning season. The woods had always been a part of her, more entrenched in her soul than she’d ever realized.
Blythe would have given anything to close her eyes and let herself turn left, down the forgotten path to her mother’s garden, where the scent of lilies would caress her. She wanted to let herself believe that her mother would be waiting for her, watching the lotus flowers cascade through the pond or sitting on her favorite bench and reading a book that Blythe would later steal for herself.
But all that awaited her in the garden were ashes and the ghost of too-sweet memories. And so, Blythe turned right, away from the garden and toward the home of Charlotte Killinger.
It took less than twenty minutes to reach the estate that sat nestled at the base of the woods, sheltered by a fortress of towering elms. It wasn’t nearly as large as Thorn Grove, though its charm was unrivaled. Where Thorn Grove was grim, even the gray smoke pluming from the chimney of the Killinger estate somehow felt lovely. Creeping vines snaked around the estate’s dark stone, fighting to consume a front door that also seemed to be at war with the shrubbery growing against it. If someone tore out the image of a fairy-tale cottage and magicked it to life, Blythe imagined it would look like Charlotte’s home. The lawn upon which the home sat was a rich and vibrant green, surrounded by goose plums and a single elderberry tree. Moss crept up the iron fence around the property, and through its slats Blythe saw that Charlotte was already outside.
She was not, however, alone.
Everett Wakefield sat beside Charlotte, sporting a boyish grin. Charlotte was laughing, squeezing his hands in hers as they spoke in low, happy whispers. There was no sign of any escort, and Blythe felt every bit a voyeur as Everett stole a kiss that Charlotte was all too happy to return.
Flushed from the neck up, Blythe turned toward William and said, louder than she had any right to, “Would you look at that, Mr. Crepsley, it seems we’ve arrived sooner than expected!”
Charlotte shoved Everett away from her, the two of them whispering in a rush of words Blythe couldn’t decipher. She pretended to be looking elsewhere and entirely unaware of Everett as he scurried out of sight.
Blythe had always known that Charlotte was interested in Everett; she just hadn’t known whether her interest was reciprocated. How curious that neither of them had said anything of their relationship.
Only after adjusting her dress and ensuring her hair was in place did Charlotte hurry toward them.
“Look at you!” She gasped. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you atop a horse!”
Ignoring the weariness of her bones and everything she had just witnessed, Blythe tipped her chin upward and said, “I fear the world is not prepared for the power I wield now that my strength has returned.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “And just like that, I’ve seen enough.” She tried to inconspicuously rub away a grass stain on her skirt as William dropped from his mare and took hold of Mitra’s reigns so that Blythe could dismount. She hadn’t realized how winded she was, for while her strength had greatly recovered in the past few months, every now and then that familiar exhaustion would catch up with her, prickling her vision or tightening her chest. A reminder not to overexert herself.
As keen as she was, Charlotte must have been able to sense her friend’s fatigue. She looped her arm through Blythe’s in a silent offer of support.
“Is it just the two of you?” Charlotte looked toward the forest, likely searching for Signa. “Why don’t we have a seat? Mr. Pembrooke?” Charlotte turned to a tall, heavyset man in a suit just as he emerged from the house. “Please show Miss Hawthorne’s groom to the stables and see that he is given whatever he desires.”
“At once, my lady.” Mr. Pembrooke nodded, and the two men were on their way across the field and to the stables a moment later.
“Forgive my spontaneity,” Blythe said once they were alone. “I know you don’t typically receive visitors today, but I felt it best if I got away from Thorn Grove for a while.”
Momentarily, the light in Charlotte’s expression winked out. “It’s a wonder you don’t get out more often, with everything they say about that place.”
Had Charlotte said such a thing the day before, Blythe might have been offended. But after what she’d witnessed in the study, she could no longer be certain that the rumors of Thorn Grove’s hauntings weren’t true.