She sniffed, feeling a sneeze coming on as she set them on a side table.
“You certainly do have a penchant for your favorite things, don’t you?” Signa hadn’t noticed before just how much his nose tended to scrunch up with his distaste.
“They’re your favorites,” he corrected. “Or at least they were.” Fate stilled as Signa adjusted herself so that she was angled between him and Blythe. His attention shifted between the two of them before he unfastened the buttons of his waistcoat and took a seat.
“I’ve no intention of harming your cousin.”
“Why should I believe you?” Signa challenged in her fiercest whisper. “You’ve already imprisoned one Hawthorne.”
His teeth snapped together with an audible click. “Your uncle would have been imprisoned whether I was there or not.” Each word was a hiss of breath, low enough for it to be impossible for Blythe to hear no matter how slow or how quiet her piano playing became.
“But you were there, weren’t you?” For Byron’s benefit, Signa spat the words through a bracing smile. “I can’t believe a word that you’re telling me.”
He assumed a tired, withered expression. “I know that we are still getting to know each other, Miss Farrow, so you have little reason to believe me. But I make it a point to never lie.” Finally, his eyes skimmed up and over her shoulder. It was little more than a fleeting glance, yet it was enough for Signa to know exactly where Death lingered. The very act of envisioning him there had the pressure in her chest deflating, for she knew that no matter what happened, he would keep Blythe safe.
As quickly as Fate had sat down, he was on his feet again. “If you wouldn’t mind, Mr. Hawthorne, I would love for Miss Farrow to accompany me for a promenade around the grounds of Thorn Grove. Do you find that agreeable?” The question was more for her benefit than Byron’s, for as the gold of Fate’s eyes glinted and the threads around him glimmered like the morning dew, Byron’s face became drawn and his eyes hollow. Though propriety called for them to be accompanied by an escort, Byron’s only response was a slow nod. Blythe remained staring down at the piano, repeatedly striking the same three chords in succession.
Signa’s spine pulled taut as a bow, and she threw a look toward where Death stood. “I can handle myself. Stay with Blythe, please.”
“You heard the lady.” Fate offered his arm, and Signa could only imagine what Death’s face must have looked like as she took it.
She was glad in that moment that she could not see Death, for she despised how deeply this would affect him. Had the situation been reversed, such a sight would have Signa wallowing in her misery, especially given her newfound abilities. Yet she hoped that he understood this was not for Fate’s benefit, for Signa cared only for two things—getting Elijah out of that cell and keeping Fate away from any other Hawthornes.
And so Signa followed Fate and the path he carved through the manor, out the front doors of Thorn Grove, and into the fields of blooming wildflowers that stretched endlessly ahead. She had to rely on Fate’s arm for support more than she would have liked, each of her steps slow and calculated, her body far weaker than she gave it credit for.
So weak, in fact, that Fate took notice.
“You used the reaper’s powers,” he noted without inflection. “Didn’t you?”
Refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a scowl, Signa coiled her anger tightly within her belly. “There was something I needed to do.”
He hummed under his breath, his arm tensing beneath her grip. “Are the consequences worth it?”
Given everything that had happened and everything she’d learned, it was impossible to answer. On one hand, she was glad to have the information. On the other, Signa still remembered the searing of her body and that music stirring in the depths of her mind as she’d watched Blythe flee from Elijah’s study.
Taking great interest in her boots, she answered, “I’d rather not discuss that.”
Fate’s laugh was not like Death’s. It was not midnight’s seductive call that shuddered down her spine with dark promises. Rather, it was warm and crisp, like the summer dawn. “Very well,” he said, trying not to crush the wildflowers beneath his boots as he led Signa down a path she and Blythe had walked a hundred times before.
Late spring was far from Signa’s favorite time of year. There was something about the heat that made her temper flare; it sapped the energy straight from her bones, leaving her wilted and burnt and unquenchable for the rest of the day. Oppressive was the only word to describe the air around them, so thick and damp that she was already beginning to perspire beneath the many layers of her dress. The finer hairs around her face began to curl, stray wisps escaping their elegant confines every minute that Signa spent outdoors, the overgrown grass scratching her ankles.