“You shouldn’t have come.”
“Of course I should have.” Blythe was dismissive, as though that fact was the most obvious thing in the world. “Look at me. I couldn’t let this dress go to waste.”
“I’m being serious, Blythe—”
“So am I.” Only then did Blythe look up with a dark severity in her icy eyes. “My father’s life is at stake. I do not care if the prince is sixty years old or the most boorish man that has ever walked this earth. There is power to being a pretty girl in a pretty dress, and if I have any chance of getting him on our side, I intend to do so. Now, will you help me or not?” She stretched out a hand, and—against her better judgment—Signa let her fingers slip through Blythe’s.
Even through the gloves Signa could feel every bone in Blythe’s fingers. She was still so thin; still so frail. Though Blythe tried not to show it, she was clearly still recovering, and the last thing in the world that Signa wanted was for her to get sucked into Fate’s games any more than the Hawthorne family had already been.
“I will always help you.” Signa squeezed Blythe’s hand in both of her own. “But, given the current state of the Hawthornes and that it’s my name on the invitation, perhaps it would be prudent if I spoke to the prince first.”
“Perhaps.” Blythe shrugged her delicate shoulders. “Though Uncle says the invitation was likely for the family. I understand your concern, but I’ve been to hell and back in this past year. I believed that I would never again attend a ball, let alone ride in another carriage. Yet here I am. A prince does not frighten me, cousin. Especially not one who doesn’t even have the decency to properly invite me to his soiree.”
Signa had little choice but to lean back in her seat and settle her hands into her lap. How much simpler it would have been if only Blythe knew the truth. Step-by-step, she was veering closer to the web that Fate had spun for them. But if Blythe wouldn’t protect herself, then so be it. Signa would work twice as hard to keep the Hawthornes safe, and away from his ensnarement.
No matter what happened that evening, she would not allow Fate to win.
NINE
THEY’D BEEN RIDING FOR WHAT FELT LIKE HOURS, JOURNEYING through twisting brambly roads and hills so precarious that both Signa and Blythe had to squint their eyes shut for fear of falling. Eventually, though, forest gave way to sprawling hills cast a burnished orange by the setting sun as the first sign of Wisteria Gardens emerged.
The palace sat upon acres of grass so ripe a green that it reminded Signa of illustrated pages from old fairy tales. It was situated on a vast mountainside, massive enough that Thorn Grove felt like little more than a farmer’s cottage in comparison.
Both Signa and Blythe pressed their faces to the windows as their carriage continued past iron gates strung with ivy and half green with lichen. Before them was a line of at least a dozen more carriages that rolled through a courtyard paved with pristine white stones. Grass nearly the color of Signa’s dress sprouted between them, so meticulously clipped that it made the walkway look ready for a life-size game of chess. It was upon those stones that the young women were dropped off, Signa’s heart fluttering in spite of itself as she stepped out of the carriage.
Wisteria Gardens was almost eerie in its beauty. The setting sun burned behind the palace, and the breeze was so gentle and lulling that Signa was almost tricked into believing the place was little more than the innocent countryside home of a prince. She looked to her right, where ripe green hills rolled down a mountainside full of grazing horses and bleating sheep. It was odd, though, how the sounds they made seemed to repeat themselves as if on a loop, and how there was no scent of them in the air. She smelled only the wisteria and looked past the courtyard to see the blooming trees that were the palace’s namesake, purple blossoms dangling from the branches and crawling up the side of the palace. There was even a wisteria-laden archway along the walking path, exquisitely maintained.
“This place is incredible.” Awe laced Blythe’s voice as she stepped forward and hooked her arm through Signa’s. “How strange that I’ve never been here before. I wasn’t aware it existed.”
Signa bit her tongue. How Fate intended to stroll into Celadon with a palace that had appeared out of thin air and call himself a prince, Signa hadn’t the faintest idea. And yet no one seemed to question it; not even Blythe, who pulled Signa along while Byron eased himself out of the next carriage and hurried to catch up. Blythe led them toward a towering marble fountain of a woman in a gown of ivy and flowers that split at her midthigh and twisted around her ankles. Water poured from the chalice she tipped precariously in her hands. Live lotus flowers and lily pads drifted at her feet.
There were other fountains, too. Smaller, but each of them as extravagant as the next and surrounded by short spiraling hedges or adorned by the most bizarre flowers that once again reminded Signa of a fairy tale—ancient and magical things that seemed out of place in the real world. All around them towered wisteria trees in full bloom, their rich petals dangling overhead like the most glorious canopy. Everyone was gaping in delight as they stretched their hands toward petals that were somehow always just out of reach. Yet as beautiful as it was, the courtyard dulled in comparison to the palace itself.
Never had Signa seen anything so massive. Where Thorn Grove was dark, Wisteria’s exterior was a spotless white, adorned with gilded carvings and more windows than Signa could count, each of them sporting marvelous stained glass. There was a long stone walkway leading up to the palace, with a pond on either side. Sculptures loomed from the water, some of them of gorgeous women or powerfully built men, while others were of beastly creatures that could come from only the wildest of imaginations. They appeared to be made from marble, some of them blanketed with moss and creeping fig, and each as excessive as the next. Signa stretched her fingers out to draw them across their damp stone, then turned toward Byron at the tapping sound of his walking stick coming up the path.
“I want you both on your best behavior,” he warned, fighting the same slack-jawed awe that everyone at Wisteria wore. “This prince could be our key to clearing Elijah’s name.”
Signa very much doubted that.
Blythe squeezed Signa’s arm, her footsteps hastening as they followed a trail of bustling crinoline toward the palace. There were whispers, too. A few of them sounded excited, but the majority were low and prickled at Signa’s skin. She turned to catch the eyes of too many strangers staring at them with dagger-sharp glances and spiteful rumors searing their tongues.
Though Signa was used to such behavior, it never stung any less, especially considering that she’d believed herself finally free of it. Blythe, too, kept her jaw tipped high and her expression flat, refusing to mark herself as prey before ravenous vultures. It was she who had warned Signa all those months ago of just how willing society was to pluck the skin from one’s bones to worsen any wound. And if there was one thing that Signa had learned about society, it was that people loved little more than watching those above them fall from grace.
“Come.” Signa steered her cousin forward. “I’d like to see the inside. I imagine it must be even more grand.”