TWENTY-FOUR
BLYTHE
BLYTHE HAD DREADED THIS MOMENT AS MUCH AS SHE’D ANTICIPATED IT.
She sat in the carriage across from Byron, suffocated by the tight quarters and lack of conversation—and from the navy traveling dress she wore, laced to her neck to look as respectable as she could manage. Byron had already given her an earful about Signa’s sudden departure the night before, and how it would only make things look worse for the Hawthornes, given how helpful Signa had been. Blythe had sat there in silence as he fumed, letting her uncle pace off his anger as she focused on a single speck on the wall behind him and refused to tell him anything more about why Signa left. She couldn’t tell him what Signa had done, or that Percy wasn’t coming back.
At least not yet. Not until she could make sense of that knowledge herself.
Signa Farrow was a traitor who did not belong at Thorn Grove. She was a liar. A murderer. And something even worse than all those things—something impossible that had the power to both take and give life with her own hands.
The weight of this knowledge hadn’t hit Blythe quite so hard as it perhaps should have, and she’d spent the full night tossing in her bed, wondering if some small part of her had known the truth all along. She’d caught glimpses of shadows and seen flickers of impossible things. Things that were sure to get her sent to an institution if ever she spoke of them.
But Signa had seen them, too. Whatever strange world Blythe had dipped her toes into since knocking on Death’s door, Signa was fully living within it.
Maybe someone wiser would have kept Signa around for answers, but the last thing Blythe wanted was for whatever Signa was involved in to affect her father. Especially on the very day when, weeks after he’d been taken from her, she’d finally see him again thanks to her bargain with the prince.
They’d arrived before dawn, while the streets were still quiet. The carriage pulled close to a towering, ruined castle with a foundation that was cracking at the seams. When Blythe had first heard that an abandoned castle had been turned into a men’s prison, she’d imagined prisoners living in comfort, some of them getting more food and better quarters than they’d had previously. But there was not a lick of comfort to boast of at the prison where Elijah was confined, and Blythe had to turn herself to stone as they approached, not allowing even a hint of emotion to betray how she felt.
The prison lawn was surrounded by thick iron bars too sleek and tall to climb but open enough that passersby could watch the prisoners work and be reminded of the life that awaited them should they fail to be law-abiding citizens. Blythe kept her expression flat as she watched a row of men take step after step on an ever-spinning wheel. Each man had his own small compartment, with walls on either side so that no prisoner could glimpse another. Each man was chained to a bar before him, which he gripped for balance while walking upon a wheel.
“They’ll be at that all day,” Byron noted without remorse. Blythe wondered whether it was a Hawthorne trait to be able to turn into seemingly unfeeling stone when the need arose, or whether he truly felt no pity. “They’ll have the appropriate breaks, of course, but they’ll be churning grain until dusk.”
Just like that, she had her answer. “The appropriate breaks?” As much as she tried to withhold some of her bitterness, the words were sharp. There were more men toiling across the lawn, loosening and separating strands of rope. They didn’t look at one another. Didn’t speak. Even if they wanted to, masks obscured their faces, with only the tiniest slits cut for eyes.
The very thought of her father in such a place—made to walk on a never-ending wheel from dawn to dusk or to spend his days stripping rope or whatever else they had the men do—was enough to turn Blythe’s blood cold. If she could have, she’d have burned the prison to the ground.
“I fail to see which part of this is appropriate.”
The look Byron flashed her was nothing short of scathing. “Don’t be soft, girl. Every man within those walls is a criminal. The hard labor will help them better themselves enough to reenter society and, hopefully, keep them from making the same mistakes twice.”
“My father doesn’t need to better himself. He’s already better than any man I know.” Only then did Blythe meet Byron’s simmering glare as she turned and let herself out of the carriage.
Byron followed, having waited for William to clamber down from the drivers seat and open his door. “You’d best reel yourself in now,” he warned. “Should I feel that your being here is a mistake, I’ll have you taken back to Thorn Grove. Do you understand? Mind your tongue before it’s our ruin.”