But there was no way that Signa didn’t know something about Percy, and so Blythe forced herself to press on. “I want you to tell me I’m wrong. I want you to tell me I need to lie down and that I’m seeing things, because the rooms you walk into get cold, Signa. Your hair is losing its color, and there is a darkness that follows you even now. A darkness that I’ve seen you speak to.
“You haven’t played a game of croquet in your life,” Blythe continued. It was a guess, but she must have been right, given that Signa did not argue. “Something was helping you, or someone. I need you to explain it to me because I feel like I’m losing my mind.”
Signa opened her mouth, presumably to argue, but to her credit promptly shut it once more.
Blythe knew then—knew with everything in her, no matter how much she wished she could play dumb—that Charlotte had been onto something, and that perhaps there was more merit to the rumors about Signa than she and her family had ever acknowledged.
Her cousin was quiet, and Blythe instinctively wrapped her hand around the carriage’s handle in case she needed to throw herself out. It looked like Signa was having some sort of mental conversation with herself, and Blythe wondered whether she’d try to come up with a story. Whether she would try to get out of this.
Instead, Signa reached forward to take Blythe’s free hand, and all Blythe could do was squeeze it tight, praying that her uneasiness was a mistake. That Signa would tell her that she was being paranoid.
Instead, Signa said, “There’s something I need to show you,” and Blythe felt her world shatter.
TWENTY-TWO
WITH EVERY BREATH SIGNA PRAYED THAT HER LUNGS WOULD GIVE out. That they would turn to lead or temporarily shut off and spare her from the next moments.
Are you certain you want to do this? Death’s voice was in her head, and God how she wished she could lose herself within it. It was too much—Everett, Byron, Charlotte, Elijah… and now Blythe asking questions Signa wished she wouldn’t. Her chest was so tight that it felt like one wrong move was all it would take for her to explode.
She needed to tell Blythe. She had to.
Blythe was already leaning as far from Signa as she could manage, arms wound around herself. Signa had to tamp down her pain and press on, for in that moment Blythe was watching her with eyes no different from everyone else’s. Like she was convinced that Signa might suddenly leap to attack her. Like she was a beast. A monster.
And maybe she was. Perhaps she deserved that fear. After all, she’d committed atrocities from which there was no turning back. Still, she loved Blythe and owed her the truth. But one could not simply admit to being a reaper in love with Death and be believed. She needed to prove it.
They arrived at Thorn Grove, and it didn’t take long before Byron dismissed them, stretching his back and eager to slip into evening attire. Signa didn’t afford Blythe the same luxury. She immediately took her cousin by the hand and led her outside, toward the stables, flexing her fingers when Blythe snatched her grip away.
I can speak to her in her sleep, Death urged. I’ll tell her that her brother left. To stop looking. You don’t have to do this.
I do was all Signa told him. If Blythe was too strong-willed for Death’s whispers the first time he’d tried to convince all of Thorn Grove not to try to find Percy, there was no chance she’d fall for them now. Besides, twisting Blythe’s mind would make them no better than Fate. He may have toyed with humans like they were his playthings, but Signa would make no such marionettes. She didn’t want to live her life continuing to keep Blythe in the dark.
“What are we doing here?” Blythe’s body was tensed, like she was readying herself to sprint away as Signa led them to the stables, toward the stall where the newborn foal lay curled on the hay. William Crepsley was seated beside it once again, stroking the foal’s chestnut hair. Its breaths were little more than rasps, and the poor thing trembled with each one. No matter how much anyone wanted to believe he’d pull through, Signa knew the foal wouldn’t make it through the night.
William stood when he noticed them, removing his working cap and holding it over his chest with both hands. “I wasn’t expecting anyone tonight. Is there something I can do for you?”
“You could give us a few minutes of privacy,” Signa told him with icy calm. “We’d like to sit with the foal.”
“Of course, Miss Farrow.” His face went tender, and he nodded before opening the stall door and slipping out. Blythe followed Signa inside with hesitant steps, sinking to her knees into the hay opposite her cousin. She looked behind her, ensuring that William was gone before she set her hand tenderly on the foal’s neck and whispered to Signa, “You’re scaring me. What are we doing here?”