The constable’s face hardened as he stooped beside the body and picked up a shard of the shattered champagne flute. When he lifted it to smell the residue, his nose wrinkled. “Cyanide,” he said flatly, and Signa had to remind herself to look surprised. The constable shared none of the crowd’s astonishment, and Signa wondered whether his equanimity had to do with what she’d been reading in the papers for the past several months.
Poison—cyanide in particular—was growing unnervingly popular. Nearly undetectable, it was a clever way to commit a murder. Some had gone as far as to call it a woman’s weapon, for it required little effort and no brute force—though Signa could have done without that label.
Her eyes fell to Everett and Eliza Wakefield. Eliza was still turned away from the body, clutching her stomach while silent tremors rattled Everett.
Fate drew a small step forward to rest a hand on Everett’s shoulder. Crouching to Everett’s level, Fate asked him, “You saw Elijah Hawthorne hand that glass to your father, did you not?”
Everett’s head wrenched up. His eyes had hollowed out, their light sucked away. “Both of them,” he said, rising to his feet, a fire raging in his voice. “Byron was near them, too. I want both the Hawthorne men taken into custody!”
Signa’s chest burned when she saw a faint shimmer of gold at Fate’s fingertips. He moved them ever so slowly, and when she squinted, Signa could have sworn that there were threads as thin as spiderwebs glistening between them.
“Listen here, boy,” Byron began. He stopped only when Elijah grabbed hold of his brother’s arm and said, “We’d be happy to tell you anything we know. I assure you that we want to find the truth as much as you do.”
Signa was more grateful than ever for Elijah’s newfound sobriety. She didn’t dare imagine how he might have responded months ago, back when he was delirious from heartbreak over the death of his wife and the illness of his daughter, Blythe. He likely would have found humor in the irony of the situation. Now, though, she was relieved to see that his mouth was set in a grim line.
There was no knowing what game Fate was playing, but surely Elijah and Byron would have no trouble with the constable. He escorted the Hawthorne brothers through the ballroom, allowing them only a moment to stop beside Blythe and Signa.
Elijah took Blythe’s face in both hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “This is nothing to fret over, all right? We’ll have everything sorted out by morning.”
Elijah embraced Signa then, and her body warmed from head to foot as he kissed her forehead, just as he had kissed his own daughter. Perhaps it was because both she and Blythe were on the verge of tears—each of the girls holding the other’s hand—that Elijah looked so calm. Like a man on his way to tea, rather than one publicly accused of murder.
“Do not trouble your mind, my girls.” He set a hand upon their shoulders. “I’ll see you soon.”
And then both Elijah and Byron were gone, escorted out of Thorn Grove like the gentlemen they were. Signa stared down the hall even after they’d disappeared, blinking back her tears so that Fate wouldn’t be allowed the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Elijah would be fine. There would be a few questions, and then the alleged involvement of the Hawthorne brothers in this death would be put to rest before a coroner even arrived to retrieve the body.
Signa squeezed Blythe’s hand to signal as much, though her cousin wasn’t looking at her, or even at her departing father. Instead, Fate was the sole focus of Blythe’s rage. Before either she or Death could stop her, Blythe slipped her hand from Signa’s and marched across the ballroom, clutching her skirts so tightly that it seemed she might tear the fabric.
“You saw no such thing tonight, neither from my father nor my uncle!” Even in heels, Blythe was a good deal shorter than Fate, though that didn’t stop Blythe from getting as close as physically possible and stabbing her finger into his stomach like it was a weapon. “I don’t know what you want from my family, but I’ll be damned before I ever allow you to have it.” Blythe shoved past him without concern for who might have been watching and started toward Thorn Grove’s butler, Charles Warwick. Fate scoffed but did not spare her another glance before he turned back toward Death and Signa.
“It’s your move, brother,” he said. “Make it a good one.”
As quickly as he had appeared, Fate was gone again, leaving only chaos in his wake.
TWO
AN HOUR LATER, THE HALLS OF THORN GROVE WERE EERIE IN THEIR STILLNESS.