This was far from Signa’s first time tempting death, but this time… Something was different. This time, Signa choked as her breath returned, coughing into her gloves as a fit overcame her. She dug her nails into the wood; it felt as though she’d swallowed shards of glass that were trying to slice their way through her.
Minutes passed before she was able to catch her breath. And when she peeled her hands away from her mouth, breathless and shaking, Signa’s white gloves shone crimson with blood.
THREE
BLYTHE
THE SKY WAS PALE WITH AN ARRIVING DAWN, AND STILL BLYTHE had not heard a word on the status of her father and uncle. She paced the floor of her sitting room, fretting across a thick Persian rug that she couldn’t help but to stomp upon with extra vigor, for its beauty felt noticeably out of place for a night as severe as this one.
Blythe had not yet changed out of her gown, which shimmered as it trailed behind her. How happy she’d been to put it on, finally having an occasion to wear something luxurious. Now, she scowled as it wound around her legs with every twist and turn.
She kept waiting for the click of the doorknob. For Warwick or Signa or someone to arrive with news that her father had returned and that it had all been a misunderstanding. Perhaps it wasn’t cyanide at all, but a heart attack with phenomenally poor timing. She could only pray and hope, because of all the places a man might drop dead, why on God’s green earth did it have to be at Thorn Grove? And why did that man have to be a duke? Blythe had only just begun to feel well enough to venture back into society, and already she was exhausted by the stares and the gossip surrounding her home and family. Her mind swirled with the memory of the shocked faces that had watched Lord Wakefield fall—the faces that had turned their attention to her father as the cause.
Blythe’s hands balled into fists. Nothing would please her more than to stuff socks into every bystander’s mouth to stop such ludicrous gossip. Yes, her family had suffered great tragedies of late. And yes, she supposed Thorn Grove was a little strange with its odd decor and general dreariness, but there was nothing supernatural about any of it.
At least… she certainly hoped there wasn’t. Little by little, though, Blythe had to admit that a sliver of doubt had begun to fill the darkest crevices of her mind with wild, impossible ideas. Inklings that perhaps there was more to this situation than she could see on the surface, for there had lately been too many nights when she awoke at the witching hour to memories of knocking on death’s door.
She remembered little about those feverish moments months ago when it had felt like a veil had been cast over reality, distancing her from real life. But her dreams did not have the same haze over those memories. In them, she remembered how her father had held her hair back as she lost what little remained in her stomach. She remembered how he’d blamed the governess, Marjorie, and how Signa had been speaking with someone—a faceless, shapeless figure that no one else seemed able to see.
In her dreams, Blythe remembered something strange stirring inside her, something light and warm that pulsed every time she’d been meant to die. She’d felt it days before Signa had arrived, and again on the night Percy had disappeared from Thorn Grove. Even now a tight, hot coil squeezed in the center of her chest, tightening and tightening until it felt as though she could barely breathe around it. It was nice sometimes—a balmy, pleasant reminder of all she’d overcome. Other times, like there in her sitting room, it blazed within her and made settling impossible.
Thinking of the man who’d accused her father only made it worse. Never in her life had Blythe seen the man with golden-brown skin and eyes as blinding as the sun, though she supposed that meant little, considering she’d been ill for nearly a full year and hadn’t the faintest clue who a great deal of people were these days.
He had the appearance and self-righteousness of a noble, but whether he was a prince or a duke or God himself come down from the heavens to smite them all, the man was a fool to come into her home and accuse her father. For all she knew, he could have been the killer, and she intended to make that point known to anyone who would listen.
Only when the sun had officially ascended did Blythe force herself to try to settle, flitting from the table to the bed, then back out into the sitting room to find whichever chair might best help with that effort. Having refused the help of her maid earlier in the evening, Blythe was left to claw at whatever parts of her corset she could reach, trying to give herself room to breathe. She eventually fell upon a chaise and kicked her boots onto the table before her. It felt like hours passed as she stared thoughtlessly up at the ceiling, and she practically leaped to her feet when a knock sounded at the door. Her hair was certain to be a mess, and surely the bare hint of rouge she’d worn on her lips and face had smudged. Yet she made no effort to make herself presentable because there was only one thing that mattered.