“You’ll be able to speak with him this evening.” Fate stood, stomping across the blanket before he grabbed the basket, the tart still inside. If only she’d waited another five minutes before picking this fight, she might have been able to try it. “Rest well, Miss Farrow. I’ll be seeing you soon.”
That, Signa was sure, she could count on.
EIGHTEEN
WHEN SIGNA RETURNED TO HER ROOMS THAT EVENING, DEATH WAS WAITING.
Though she could not see him, his oppressiveness weighed upon her the moment she stepped over the threshold. It felt as though she were wading through gelatin as she forced one foot after the other, her excitement stifled by the instinct to turn back.
Her eyes darted around the room, and she wished she could catch a glimpse of him. But all she saw was Gundry curled by the fire, his paws sprawled near the hearth as he slept, seemingly without a care in the world even as every hair along Signa’s neck rose.
“What is it?” she whispered, though she already knew the source of Death’s anger before his words filled her thoughts.
Tell me I’m mistaken. For once Death’s voice was no balm to her soul but a blizzard that chilled every inch of her. Tell me that you are no fool, Little Bird, and that you did not make a bargain with my brother.
“I did not make a bargain with your brother.” Signa shut the door behind her and turned the lock, worried someone might stroll by and see her breath pluming the air. “I made two. And I understand if you’re frustrated, but—”
Frustrated? The fire in the hearth flickered, rousing Gundry from his slumber. The hound lifted his head and growled low in his throat. You haven’t the faintest idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. Fate is not someone you bargain with, Signa.
The last time Signa could remember hearing him this angry was after she’d first met Eliza Wakefield and the other girls for tea months earlier. He’d hated how Signa had stifled herself around them, pretending to be someone she wasn’t solely to appease them. This time, though, there wasn’t just anger in his tone, but something else that Signa couldn’t place.
“What other choice did I have?” she asked. “It was either a bargain with him or never getting to see or speak with you again. Besides, it was my idea, not his.”
Death’s laugh was the most intoxicating poison, and even amid her mounting annoyance, Signa found herself wanting little more than to drown herself in it.
This is what he wanted to happen. He spat each word, as if he could not get them past his lips fast enough. It was Fate who laid out this game and placed its pieces precisely where he wanted them. And you fell for the trap.
There was a storm brewing in Signa’s chest, rage heating her cheeks and palms. This was her idea, not Fate’s. She had come up with it. She had approached him, ensuring that every word was spoken with intention so that she could get precisely what she wanted out of the deal.
She was in control… wasn’t she?
These are not decisions you have to make alone, Death told her, and Signa knew he must have been close from the way frost brushed across her lips. And yet you have done so.
His last few words were spoken pointedly enough that Signa took note. She braced herself against her desk, squeezing the edge of it. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
Death’s answer did not come with storm-sharpened wind but with a sigh that eased much of the pressure in the room. I would understand if you wanted to make the deal, Signa. So much has been thrown at you, and you have options now that you didn’t have before. It makes sense if you’re curious, though I must warn you—
“I have no need for your warnings.” Signa realized then what the strange tension was in Death’s voice: fear.
He thought she was interested in Fate. The very idea was absurd, yet no laugh bubbled in her throat. Instead, she followed Gundry’s eyes to where Death stood and gave herself no time to contemplate before she stalked toward him. She ripped off a glove at the last second and managed to find a bare slice of his skin before Death had the chance to pull away.
Immediately, Signa’s heartbeat slowed, only this time her shift into the reaper was far from peaceful. She fell to her knees as her lungs collapsed, head swimming as her body fought for breaths that refused to come. She gripped her throat, clawing at it until all she saw was white. There was no saying how long she was like that before irate shadows slipped into her vision, seizing hold of her. Even in his rage Death was tender, and Signa leaned into his embrace.
“My foolish girl,” he whispered, drawing her into powerful arms that wound tight around her. “What were you thinking?”