Signa pried off her gloves and crouched to press a palm against the rich soil, fingers twirling around stems and petals. There were few things in life better than the feeling of earth against bare skin.
She didn’t know what it said about her that the first thought in her head was whether the conditions here were right for belladonna to thrive. She cast the idea from her mind as soon as she’d had it, saving such things for a later time when Fate was gone and Death was no longer so worried about her abilities.
“My father had plans for it?” she found herself asking instead, forcing herself to a stand before she soiled her nightgown. She’d have to get a wardrobe better suited for gardening with as much time as she anticipated spending here. There was so much potential in this place; the excitement of it thrummed against her chest.
“There are sketches of what it was to become laid out in his study,” Amity said, looking pleased by Signa’s eagerness. “Edward sketched everything, never without a plan.”
Signa’s blood ran cold at the sound of her father’s name. How long had it been since she’d last heard it? Five years? Ten? Had anyone spoken it aloud since she’d lived with her grandmother?
It was no secret that Signa had wanted to remain at Thorn Grove as long as possible. She’d dreaded her arrival to Foxglove, and yet now that she was here, finally in a home of her own, she realized that all she’d really needed was a moment to herself in a place where she was in full control. A place where she could focus on having a bit of earth between her fingers. A place where she could finally just… be. No hiding. No pretenses. No being looked at as though she were a monster.
Signa crossed the garden and pressed a tentative finger to the withered juniper shrub. Perhaps it was finally time that she gave her new powers their fair shot—not because anyone else expected it of her but because she wanted to. This garden could be her playground; here, she could do whatever she wished without judgment.
She tipped her head back, savoring the brine and the wind that snarled through her hair. She’d been wrong to fear change—wrong to fear Foxglove, for it was the perfect canvas. A strange, misunderstood place she could explore to her heart’s content. Like, it seemed, had called to like. Here, she would grow roots of her own, and no one could ever force her to leave. Perhaps being alone wasn’t always such a bad thing.
Signa decided it was worth the sacrifice of her nightgown as she lay down on the bed of poppies, shutting her eyes as the earth’s chill sank into her bones.
Foxglove was going to be the perfect home.
TWENTY-NINE
BLYTHE
BLYTHE DIDN’T BOTHER TRYING TO PRETEND THAT SHE KNEW A LICK about what happened at a fox hunt. When she’d arrived, Eliza had taken care to ensure that Blythe was in suitable attire—which still required a corset, a horribly tight navy dress, and a proper black hat that fastened beneath her chin.
She’d been ushered from the Wakefields’ manor immediately after arriving, taken to the surrounding forest with no chance to speak to Everett; she was hardly able to get a passing look at the new duke. He was surrounded by proud, entitled men Blythe recognized all too well.
As Eliza had predicted, none of them spared her or Miss Wakefield any attention. It seemed they cared only for Everett, and winning his ear as the new duke.
To his credit, Everett took the attention in stride, clasping shoulders and nodding whenever appropriate. Still, Blythe imagined it must have been a relief for him when his horse was brought over and another rider with golden hair moved beside him, face bored and stony.
Prince Aris may have been her best bet at helping her father, and yet resentment still curdled Blythe’s stomach when she saw him. Eliza had no such qualms. When she was certain no one was looking, she tugged her corset so that it pushed her breasts up.
Blythe tried not to scrunch her nose at such an obvious display. So much for her interest in Byron.
As if able to feel her thoughts, Aris’s eyes slid to Blythe’s. She expected he would turn away, content to ignore her. But to the surprise of both Blythe and Eliza, he gave his beautiful dapple-white mare a gentle nudge toward her.
Though Blythe rode like a proper barbarian at home, with her legs on either side of the horse, in the public eye she sat in the appropriate sidesaddle fashion. It made her unsteady beneath the weight of Aris’s stare, and for once she was grateful for the corset that kept her straight and unyielding as he approached.
“I assume your cousin is here, as well?” Aris gave no greeting, hardly sparing Blythe more than a glance before searching the distance for Signa.