Rather than promenade, there was a large picnic blanket spread beneath the bend of an oak tree, and Signa frowned as Fate motioned for her to sit upon it. She couldn’t look away from a slug that was sliding up the length of the blanket’s edge, searching for somewhere dark and cool to escape to. She had never related more to a slug in her life.
Never, not in a million years, could Signa envision Death seated here before her, the two of them withering in the sunlight while trying to sip tea and make merry as the heat glared down on them. She didn’t care to be a sunflower, unfurling her petals in the daylight for all to see. She would rather be an adorable little mushroom, thriving in the dark crevices where few ventured to look.
“Well?” Fate was setting out the most beautiful porcelain trays before her, taking great care to lay each one just so. “Do you like it?” There was such hopefulness in his voice that, rather than take another jab at him, Signa stilled. She looked to the slug, as though it might help her find the right words, when he set the picnic basket beside him and started to stand.
“It’s fine if you don’t,” he said hurriedly. “We can attend a ballet this evening. We could take an actual promenade, perhaps around the park—”
Signa reached out to take hold of his hand, jolting at how still he went. Never in her life had she felt such command over someone, not even Death. In that moment she felt every bit of the tension wound within Fate, ready to break free and spring from his skin. He was a desperate man, and more susceptible than Signa had expected. One day she might use that to her advantage. But in that moment she could think only of how sad it was. How sad and how broken he was.
“This is very nice,” she told Fate, guilt churning within her belly as his shoulders relaxed. She thought of Death’s pleasant chill against her skin, craving it more than ever in the unbearable heat. And yet she would rather suffer there in the heat than be seen publicly with Prince Aris.
“You always used to love the spring,” Fate whispered as he took his seat, looking pained to draw away from her, “but summer was your favorite. We would spend our days just like this, enjoying meals by the sea or exploring old cities that felt new. I’d hoped that a picnic might spark some sort of memory.”
Signa frowned, the music she’d remembered playing on a loop in her head. Perhaps it was only a fluke—nothing more than her memory of dancing with Fate back at Wisteria Gardens getting the better of her. She was more curious about him than she had any right to be, and while it was true that in his presence she felt a strange and undeniable pull, there was nothing romantic between them.
“I hate summer.” Signa didn’t mean for it to be cruel, and she hated that those words had Fate shrinking in on himself, his frown severe. “I’m not very partial to the spring, either. I prefer the colder seasons.”
His jaw was tense, hands flexing as he gripped the basket. “Of course. My apologies.” He didn’t look at her as he doled out a platter of cold meats, then sandwiches that had been cut with the utmost precision. Even the cups he filled with fresh lemon juice and sugar syrup were both meticulously filled to the same point, not so low as to be unsatisfying but not so high that she’d spill it when she sipped. Delicate lavender petals floated atop it.
“Did you make all of this yourself?” Signa took the drink gratefully, trying to spy what else was in the basket. There were pastries, including some sort of glazed tart that looked as though it had been baked by an expert hand.
“Are you surprised?” he asked by way of answer, and the small smile he tried to hide was enough to confirm her suspicion that he had. Glancing down at her lemonade, she took a cautious sip to see whether it tasted half as good as it looked—it was even better.
Signa truly looked at Fate then, as he filled a plate for her and then for himself. Unlike Death, this man was made for the sun. He practically glowed beneath it, as though it was a part of him. He seemed comfortable in a fitted white shirt he’d loosened at the collar and trousers cut at the ankles, exposing them as he leaned back to watch her.
“They’ll be the fashion one day,” he noted when he caught her staring. “It’ll be a while until they catch on, but I’ve wanted to try them ever since I crafted the fate of a woman who thought them up.”
Signa drew the plate he’d made for her into her lap, taking a hesitant bite of a cold cut that was so rich she began to salivate.
“Dear God.” She had to look down at what she was eating just to confirm it wasn’t somehow a manifestation of her hunger. “Do you always eat like this?”