Fate’s laugh was proud and warm. “Of course. I know the finest cooks and artisans in the world, Miss Farrow. Why would you settle for average when everything upon your tongue could taste of ambrosia?”
He and Death truly could not have been more different, and Signa found herself pondering what an eternity spent with Fate’s powers would be like. Though there was a chance that every day might feel rich and exciting, she wondered if everything else seemed to dull in comparison. How unsatisfying every day must have felt when you were always on the hunt for something more beautiful or more luxurious than the last. “What of the art in Wisteria Gardens?” she found herself asking. “How do you come to collect it?”
“Some pieces are from the most talented artists I’ve ever come across, most of them unrecognized. The majority of the art, however, is mine.” There was an ease to the way Fate spoke, a casualness in his voice and posture that Signa was uncertain what to do with. She wanted to hate Fate, truly. Yet while his methods needed vast improvement, she also understood them, for she would do anything to help Elijah. Already she had killed for Blythe. And should Death ever be in such a position… Signa shuddered to think about the lengths she’d go to save him.
She was no better than Fate, really. And while she could not give him what he wanted, she had to admit that being with him didn’t feel as bad as she’d expected.
“So you spend your days drinking the finest wine and eating the most delicious food you can find?” she teased. “It sounds exhausting.”
The barest hint of a smile cracked his lips. “It’s not so luxurious as that, I’m afraid. Mostly I work.”
“By weaving tapestries,” she specified as she plucked the slug from the blanket and tucked it into the soil at the base of the oak. She may have been doomed to burn in the sunlight, but at least the slug didn’t have to.
“By weaving tapestries,” he echoed. “Yes. Though you make it sound so simple.”
“Is it not?” She thought of her own abilities as the reaper and how natural they felt. Her powers of Life, however… As much as she was drawn to exploring them, using them had felt like tearing herself apart from the inside out. Signa clung to his words, desperate to understand. There would be some relief, she imagined, if she knew someone else who struggled with their own unusual abilities.
Fate leaned forward, and so bright was his smile that Signa’s heart stuttered. “I could show you if you’d like?”
Curiosity festered within her, yet she could only imagine the ideas Fate would get if she agreed. She had no desire to let this man continue believing there was a chance of anything between them, no matter how tempting the idea of watching him work might have been.
“You said that you wouldn’t hurt Blythe.” Signa set aside her plate and cup, both empty. “And you said that you make it a point not to lie, so will you vow that to me, then? That no matter what happens between us, you will bring her no harm? That you will not warp her mind, or turn her into one of your puppets?”
“My puppets?” He snorted, finishing off his drink before reaching into his pocket and brandishing a silver sewing needle. Without a moment’s hesitation, Fate pricked the tip of it into his finger. Upon it, a single bead of blood shone gold. “Very well. If this is what it takes to ease your mind, then I will make you the most binding promise of all. Give me your hand.”
She did, so used to pricking her own finger when she’d been testing out her abilities that she didn’t blink when he pierced the needle into her skin. The moment her blood welled up, he pressed his against it.
“For as long as I exist, I vow to never bring harm to Blythe Hawthorne.” Fate’s blood seared against her skin, and Signa gritted through the pain with a hiss.
Before he could pull away, she gripped his hand tighter. “And what of Death?” Though she knew she was pressing her luck when he tried to withdraw his hand, Signa held on. “Will you also vow not to hurt him?”
Fate stopped trying to pull away and instead allowed his eyes to meet hers as he said coolly, “He will not be extended the same courtesy.”
Signa jerked away, her blood pulsing a manic rhythm. Rationally she could understand Fate’s anger. Given who it was toward, however, she accepted none of it.
“I expect my communication with him to be restored immediately,” she demanded as Fate wiped their smeared blood onto a handkerchief he’d produced from his pocket. He was a shell of the man he’d been moments ago, scowling so deeply it looked as though someone had taken a chisel and carved it upon his face.