“Is that not why you’ve invited us? To find yourself a princess to carry on such a proud lineage?”
“I don’t recall inviting you at all.” There was a tic in his jaw as he watched her, and it took everything in Blythe not to show her embarrassment. He truly had avoided inviting her, then. She supposed it was only to be expected, given all that had happened with the Hawthornes, but it hurt more than she cared to admit to be scorned so thoroughly.
“I apologize if my presence offends you,” she said with every ounce of bitterness she had to spare. “I was recently sick and confined to my bed for some time. Now that I am well again, the excitement of seeing my cousin’s invitation got the better of me.”
Had she been looking up, Blythe might have noticed the heat in his stare. She might have seen the millions of gossamer threads that surrounded them. There were even some attached to her, and Fate studied them with great interest.
“You,” he said at last, “are the girl who defied death.”
Blythe stilled at the odd phrasing. She didn’t need to ask how he knew that; this whole town reeked of gossip. Still, it was jarring to hear it said aloud, and she didn’t care to give that time of her life any more attention. “I am a woman,” she corrected. “But yes, I very likely should have died several times over. It is a miracle that I did not.”
“A miracle indeed.” She wondered whether she was imagining that Aris’s voice had cooled significantly, or that he seemed to have taken a renewed interest in her. “I am glad that you came, Miss…”
“Hawthorne,” she said. “My name is—”
“Blythe!”
Blythe spun toward the urgent voice that called to her from across the hall. Signa’s skin was flushed and her curls disheveled as though she’d been running. Rather than look at her cousin, however, Signa had her eyes trained on the prince. Blythe tried to gather Signa’s attention and warn her that this man was the one they’d been searching for. This was whom they needed to impress. Yet her cousin didn’t once turn toward her. It took Blythe drawing a step closer to realize that Signa’s eyes were even stranger than usual, wide with alarm.
“Blythe,” Signa repeated with the gentleness of an ox, “we should get back to the ball. Byron’s bound to notice your absence.”
Once again Blythe tried to send her cousin a message with her eyes, but if Signa understood it, she paid it no mind as Aris slid past Blythe and closed the gap between them. “Ah, Miss Farrow,” he said. Blythe could have sworn his voice was lighter, a sudden pep in his step that had not been there seconds before. “I was hoping you’d come.”
Signa inched closer, nearly knocking into one of the strange sculptures. Her eyes never strayed from Aris. She was behaving like a skittish fawn staring down the barrel of a rifle.
“My cousin and I were just heading in to enjoy the ball,” she said, sidestepping and grabbing hold of her cousin’s arm with such vigor that Blythe winced. “Our uncle will be looking for us.”
“Signa, behave yourself.” Blythe kept her words low, spitting them through a smile. “This is the prince.” She’d hoped that the news would relax Signa. That she’d stand up straight and stop behaving so boorishly. But it seemed that Blythe would have to be twice the lady to compensate for Signa, who didn’t so much as flinch.
“Miss Farrow is right.” Blythe smiled with each word, her heart hammering. For her father’s sake, she needed to make a good impression. “Someone might get the wrong idea if they caught us out here alone. We’d be happy to have an escort back to the ballroom, however. I find myself in need of a partner for my first dance.”
“I don’t think that’s a good—” Signa lurched forward just as Prince Aris offered his arm. His eyes glinted as gold as the gilded panels around them.
“Of course, Miss Hawthorne.” He smiled as Blythe slid her hand over his forearm. “I would be delighted.”
ELEVEN
IF LOOKS COULD KILL, SIGNA AIMED TO OBLITERATE FATE AS HE strolled onto the dance floor with Blythe on his arm. One corner of his lip quirked when he caught Signa glaring. From the placement of his hands to the smug gleam that lit his face, it seemed Fate was making every effort to get under Signa’s skin. Unfortunately for her, it was working.
“Is that Blythe Hawthorne on the arm of a prince?” Bodies pressed in behind Signa, falling into a tizzy of whispers that had her digging her heels into the marble. She’d been a fool to let Blythe out of her sight, too distracted by Byron and Eliza, who even then fought to steal her attention. The pair no longer stood near the dance floor but had excused themselves to a corner of the room. Eliza spared no glance at Byron; in fact, she held her fan out to cover her mouth. Every so often Signa would catch a glimpse of Eliza’s lips and see that they were moving. Byron stood close enough to listen, and though he hid it well, he was speaking, too.
Signa longed to get closer, sensing with everything in her that she was missing something important. But if Fate had made one thing clear, it was that he intended to allow Signa no reprieve. She’d been enough of a fool already to allow Blythe to fall into his hands; she wouldn’t make the same mistake again by allowing him anything more than a single dance with her cousin.
The ballroom fell quiet as Fate bowed to Blythe, who returned the formality with a curtsy. Though she would have heard the whispers by now, Blythe was light on her feet and held herself with the grace of a queen as she placed one delicate hand atop Fate’s arm and allowed his other to settle upon her waist. The swell of a waltz filled the ballroom, and with every step the couple took, Signa’s pulse throbbed in her neck.
How was it that Fate had managed to convince everyone that he was royalty? He had only to appear and already ladies were fawning while men straightened their vests. Signa thought to ask some of those men for more information—where the prince allegedly came from, or where his parents, the queen and king, were—yet the moment her mouth formed the words, their eyes went glossy and stared blankly back at her. They watched her as though swept into a dream, never hearing the questions.
No one else noticed it. But Signa did, just as she noticed that while the voices had quieted, they wielded their whispers like finely honed blades and flocked around Blythe like wolves circling for the kill. She wished again that Death were present, if only to feel his comforting chill against her bones as she watched her cousin with increasing dread in her stomach. On her own, Signa’s abilities were not yet a match against Fate’s. She thumbed at the belladonna she kept tucked in her dress regardless, just in case. Whether Fate intended it or not, he was broadening the target on Blythe’s back, and one of these days someone was bound to take aim. Signa wished only that she could be Blythe’s shield.
Fate set his hand on the small of Blythe’s back, a small gesture but one that was far from innocent. Like every other unmarried woman in the crowd, Signa readied herself to pounce the moment the song was over, unwilling to watch her cousin continue this parade of tossing her hair back and smiling in some ridiculous attempt to sway a man she undoubtedly hated.
“Look at them,” Charlotte whispered dreamily, leaning her head against Signa’s shoulder. “They make quite the pair, don’t they? Their children would look like little sunbursts.”