How did one beat Fate in his own game? Couldn’t he change the outcome? Twist everything to his favor? She wanted to win as much as Blythe, yet it wasn’t until a chill tore through the air around her shoulders that Signa believed they might have a chance.
Signa gripped the handle of her mallet and tried to capture her fleeing breath. At once she turned to Fate, who had given himself away by looking directly at the spot next to Signa—where, she now realized, Death stood. Though she could neither see nor hear him, the mallet pressed harder into her palms, as if to say that he was there with her. That he would help.
“Ladies first,” Fate offered with an edge of annoyance. It was the only thing that revealed just how he felt about Death’s arrival.
Blythe positioned herself as though she’d played a thousand times before, squaring herself to the ball and striking it straight on. The ball hurtled through the first wicket, and Fate’s smile twitched downward. He stole a look at Blythe, then at Death, but as far as Signa had been able to tell, that hit was all her own.
Blythe flashed Fate a wicked grin as she strode up to the ball, earning a second turn from scoring a point. Her next strike had the ball across the field, more than halfway toward the next wicket. She inspected her work with a satisfied little nod before strolling back to them. “I suppose that will do.”
It was Everett’s turn next, and Signa felt the chill wash toward him. Fate, too, took a subtle step closer to Everett. Golden threads glistened, drawing the mallet back, but it seemed that something got hold of the ball the moment the mallet struck—Death. He at least had the decency to scoot the ball forward a few inches for Everett’s sake, though it was a crooked shot away from the first wicket that left Everett scratching his head.
“I’m usually not such a horrendous shot.” He glanced above him, as if checking whether the wind itself was his offender.
“You’ll get it next time.” Blythe’s voice was automatic, as though she’d had to tell players that too many times before. “Perhaps the prince will make up for it on his turn.”
“I intend to,” Fate bit back, glowering when Blythe never dropped her smile.
“It sounds like someone underestimated us.” She stretched her gloved hand before her, inspecting it for any sign of dirt. “I used to make my brother play with me every Sunday.”
Signa could have sworn that there was the tiniest hitch in Blythe’s voice, and that her icy blue eyes were suddenly much sharper as she shared a look with Charlotte. There was little time to think about it though, for as Blythe reminded her, “It’s your turn, Signa.”
Everything Signa knew about croquet she had learned from watching Blythe approximately two minutes prior. She approached the ball just as her cousin had, squaring herself to it and doing her best to appear as though this were second nature, and that she’d swung a mallet a thousand times before. Really, though, she was pleading with Death under her breath.
Fortunately, he seemed to know exactly what to do. She couldn’t say whether her mallet had even struck before the ball was rocketing through the next wicket. Everett whistled low behind them, but when Signa glanced back toward her cousin with a victorious grin, she was surprised to find that Blythe’s smug expression had been wiped clean, her pale brows creased.
It was possible she was overly focused. With such a prize on the line, how could she not have been? Still, Blythe looked between Signa and the ball with such skepticism that Signa’s palms began to sweat through her gloves. She gave her hands a shake before fisting the mallet for her second turn. Once again she felt the familiar breeze of Death’s shadows as he jumped into action, gliding the ball along the path and straight through the next wicket.
“I daresay we’ve been played, Your Highness,” Everett mused, glancing back at Charlotte every so often to see whether she was enjoying herself. “Perhaps we should quit while we’re ahead.”
Fate scoffed as he stalked toward his team’s ball. “Nonsense. We have time to redeem ourselves.” The threads around him blazed an intense gold, winding around his mallet. But Death’s shadows must have intertwined with them, for the mallet was slower than it ought to have been on the swing. Even so, the ball slid through the wicket.
“I do enjoy a nice, fair game.” Fate repositioned himself for his second strike, bending at the hips. The second he did, he whispered at the ground, “I do not make a habit of cheating, brother. But if you continue to, then so will I.” Then he struck, and this time the ball was off, not quite reaching the wicket. He glared at it, lips curled as though the ball had personally offended him.