“He knows that her father’s been accused of murder, doesn’t he?” Diana flapped her fan against the heat of the ballroom, and for once Signa found herself wishing she had one of her own. Why was it that these events always looked so much more glamorous on the outside than they truly were?
It was a challenge to stand idly by as Fate and Blythe danced. Though, given all the eyes on Signa, she had little choice but to force a smile onto her lips. She needed to get onto that dance floor, which meant that she needed to make herself look approachable at the very least. Already Charlotte and Diana were being swept away with invitations, names filling their dance cards. Eliza Wakefield, too, had rejoined the others on the floor. Though her dress dazzled as she spun and twirled in the arms of a man Signa had never seen, her smile was frayed at the ends, and her gaze kept flickering toward the corner where Byron stood watching, the sconces cutting grim shadows across his face.
Signa nearly cursed when she realized what she was doing. How much easier it would have been if she’d been honest with Death about her intent to come and had him watching over Byron. As it was, she had to make a choice—there would be time for Byron later. But first, getting Blythe as far from Fate as possible took precedence.
She accepted a dance from the first man to ask her and took her place across from him in a row of other women. Down the row her eyes wandered, searching for Blythe. It wasn’t until she turned her attention back to her partner that Signa noticed the man who stood before her was not the same one who’d invited her to dance. It was Fate himself, silent but for the gleam in his eyes that spoke louder than laughter. There was no time to retreat before the song began.
“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Farrow? I could feel your eyes boring into me from across the ballroom.” Fate stepped forward, the burnished amber of the walls casting a glow on the floor that reminded Signa of a late autumn sunset, almost as though they were dancing upon fallen maple leaves. Yet there was no gentle crunch beneath her footsteps; no settling of her mind and easing of her chest that came from autumn’s stillness. Signa mirrored her partner as he lifted one hand to the air, their palms nearly touching as they circled each other as if on either side of a looking glass.
Heat seared between the open space of their palms, jolts of static prickling her fingertips. Signa kept a straight face despite it all. From the low swell of music to the sunset lighting, everything about Fate was a performance she refused to acknowledge. “Whatever your issue is with me, my cousin has no part of this.”
“On the contrary,” he said, and Signa noticed for the first time that there was the hint of an accent in his voice. It wasn’t like any she’d heard before, but something old and strange and almost guttural. “Because of your insistence that she live, your cousin has now defied her fate three times over. Three times, she was meant to die.”
Signa’s throat squeezed tight as she realized that the room’s chattering had ceased. Gone was the low sweep of autumn as winter’s silent chill leached in. There were no whispers or laughter, nor even the soft tinking of glassware. While those around her continued to dance, their movements had sharpened, every one of them as precise as the next and perfectly coordinated. Pretty faces smiled at no one, their unblinking eyes filling with tears that streaked down their cheeks and onto grinning lips. They were little more than puppets and Fate their puppeteer, twisting and twirling and bending them to his every whim.
Everywhere Signa looked there were signs of Fate’s power. From the palace and the golden threads spun around it, to his control over so many beings at once. It was an effortless power—one he didn’t even seem to consider as he spun Signa across the dance floor.
“Free them.” While her command was firm, Signa was careful not to let emotion slip in. It wouldn’t do to give Fate anything more to hold over her, though something in his gleaming eyes told her that he already knew how deeply his power bothered her.
“You must have many questions for me,” he said. “Promise me another dance, and I’ll answer whatever you wish me to.”
She had to stop her brows from shooting up. Fate was baiting her, yes, but if there was even a possibility that he was being sincere…
“Anything?” she pressed, scrutinizing his every movement.
“Within reason. Though you must first promise to stop your glaring.”
She forced her gaze away from him.
“And your scowling.”
“Very well.” It was Blythe that Signa thought of as she blocked out the image of hollow faces spinning beside her. “I agree to one more dance.”
Dazzling was the only word to describe the smile that spread slowly across Fate’s lips. He made the tiniest motion with his free hand, fingers barely shifting, and suddenly laughter filled the air. There were whispers again, and chatter all around as the dance ended and partners separated in search of the next name on their dance cards. All the while, Fate kept a firm hold of Signa.
He was so indiscreet that Signa could only hope her cheeks did not flush as quiet gasps and tittering laughter rose behind her. First Blythe, and now her. She could only imagine what Byron must be thinking, though wasn’t it he who had suggested that Marjorie sleep with Elijah to stop him mourning his late wife? Perhaps he believed this was exactly the sort of play that Signa should be making.
“Thank you for that,” she admonished, earning only a grin from Fate as music reverberated through the ballroom once more. It wasn’t a proper waltz but rather an old tune that sounded like something from another time. Something that made her feel as though they should be dancing barefoot in a forest glade rather than a dimly lit ballroom.
Fate was close enough that Signa smelled the wisteria on his clothing, mild and sweet. He drew the first step, leading her through the dance with practiced grace.
“You were right. I do have questions, many of them,” she said, trying to sound less anxious than she felt.
To her surprise, Fate’s touch was firm but careful, and he watched Signa’s face as though she were a puzzle in need of solving. She suspected that her own face looked the same.
“So long as there’s music and we are dancing, you may ask them.” His voice was gentler than she expected.
“Why is it that no one is questioning a palace that has appeared out of nowhere?” Signa demanded, wasting no time. “No one seems to recognize you as the man who accused my uncle. They only see you as a prince.” Her steps were rigid as she counted from one to three in her head. Signa would be damned if she allowed herself to blunder a simple dance before Fate.
“Human minds are easy to placate.” Again, the golden threads around them glistened. “I can control what they see, what they do… If necessary, I could have everyone forget that Elijah’s imprisonment ever happened.”
Fate braced her when she missed a step, as if he’d anticipated her doing so. Only then did Signa allow herself to truly look at this man. She didn’t care for the heat of Fate’s body, or that touching him made her hands clammy. Still, she appreciated that he was gentle with her, and that he handed his information over easily. It didn’t hurt that feigning the role of a prince didn’t feel out of reach for him, either. His face was one that belonged on the pages of newspapers throughout the world, broad and chiseled in all the right places, with a proud square jaw. He was strong, too, his body firm beneath her fingers. And she couldn’t forget the cleverness in those eyes—always a little squinted, as though he was in a constant state of assessment and perpetually dissatisfied with his findings.
Signa could have sworn she’d seen that look before, though she couldn’t place where.
“Why are you here?” she asked as he spun her.
His answer was too simple. Too relaxed. “I’m here to meet you, Miss Farrow.”