IT’S SAID THAT FOXGLOVE IS MOST LETHAL JUST BEFORE THE SEEDS RIPEN.
Signa Farrow could not help but think of that alluringly toxic flower, and her family’s manor that shared its namesake, as she stared down at the corpse of the once Duke of Berness. Lord Julius Wakefield.
All her life she’d heard the stories of how her parents had died in that manor, their breath stolen by poison. Signa had found wrinkled newspaper clippings detailing the incident buried in her grandmother’s attic when she was a child, and she remembered thinking what a beautifully tragic evening it must have been. She’d envisioned bodies dancing beneath a buttery haze of lights while satin gowns twirled about the ballroom floor, and Signa thought of how lovely it must have been in those final moments before Death arrived. She’d taken comfort knowing that her mother had died in a ball gown, doing what she’d loved most.
Never had Signa allowed herself to imagine the tragedy of such a death or stopped to consider the shattering glasses and earsplitting screams like those that reverberated through Thorn Grove’s ballroom. Until her cousin Blythe stumbled forward as someone shoved past her, Signa hadn’t given any thought to how a person would have to mind their hands and toes to avoid being trampled by those who hurried past the body lying dead at their feet and rushed toward an exit.
This death was not the beautiful, peaceful one that she had dreamed for her parents.
This death was merciless.
Everett Wakefield sank to his knees beside his father. He wilted over the corpse, showing no awareness of the mounting chaos even as his cousin Eliza Wakefield gripped him by one shoulder. Her face was green as lichen. Gathering one long look at her dead uncle, she clutched her stomach and heaved her dinner onto the marble floor. Everett didn’t so much as flinch as her sickness spilled onto his boots.
Moments before, the Duke of Berness had been all smiles as he’d prepared to partner with the Hawthornes on their esteemed business, Grey’s Gentleman’s Club. The arrangement had been the town’s most notable gossip for weeks and a venture that Elijah Hawthorne, Signa’s former guardian, had been preening about for even longer. Yet as he stood behind the corpse of that almost-partner with a flute of water trembling in his hands, Elijah Hawthorne no longer preened. He’d gone so white that his skin was like marble, veins of blue corded beneath his eyes.
“Who did this to me?” Lord Wakefield’s spirit hovered over his body, his translucent feet not quite touching the ground as he twisted to face Death and Signa—the only ones who could see him.
Signa was asking herself the very same question, though with the restless crowd surrounding them, she couldn’t very well answer Lord Wakefield aloud. She waited to see if more bodies would fall, wondering all the while if this was how it had been at Foxglove the night of her parents’ deaths. If it had felt too bright and too glittery for the sickness that marred the air—and if her mother’s sweat-soiled gown and coiled hair had felt as heavy then as Signa’s did now.
So lost in her thoughts and her panic was Signa that she flinched when Death whispered beside her, “Easy, Little Bird. No one else will die tonight.”
If that was meant to reassure her, he’d need to try harder.
Everett held his father’s limp hand, his tears falling in a bone-chilling silence as his father’s spirit sank to his knees before him.
“Is there a way to reverse this?” Lord Wakefield surveyed Signa with such severity—such hope—that her shoulders caved inward. God, what she wouldn’t give to be able to tell him yes.
As it was, she had to pretend not to hear him, for her focus had been stolen by a man who stood opposite the corpse, watching Signa’s every move. His presence alone had her drawing back, every hair on her body standing on end.
Never had she seen this man, yet she knew who he was the moment his molten stare pressed into her. With his gaze, the haze of lights dimmed, and the panicked screams of partygoers dulled, ebbing away until they were little more than a distant hum. While Death’s grip on her tightened, Signa found that she could not turn to look at him. The man who called himself Fate consumed her, and by the slice of a smile on his lips, he knew it.
“It’s a pleasure, Miss Farrow.” His voice was as rich as honey, though it held none of its sweetness. “I’ve been searching for you for a very long time.”
He was taller than Death in his human form but slender and corded with delicate muscle. Where Death was fair skinned and sharpened by a cut jawline and hollow cheekbones, Fate sported deceptively charming dimples upon bronze skin. Where Death was dark intrigue, Fate shimmered as if a beacon for all the world’s light.
“Why are you here?” It was Death who spoke in a tone of bitter ice, for Signa’s lips were numb, useless things.
Fate tipped his head to look at Death’s hand on Signa’s shoulder, only a slip of fabric between their touch. “I wanted to meet the young woman who had stolen my brother’s heart.”
Signa’s attention halted. Brother. Death hadn’t mentioned having one, and from the tension in the air, she wasn’t certain whether she should believe it. Never had she felt such lethality from Death, whose shadows pooled beneath him. She yearned to draw back and find solace in their protection, but no matter how much she begged her body to move, it was as though her feet were nailed to the floor. Signa felt like little more than a bug beneath Fate’s glare, half expecting him to lift his boot to squash her. Instead, he drew two steps forward and took Signa’s face in a hand so startlingly soft that she flinched—a noble’s hand, she thought. He bent to her level, his touch scorching her skin.
“Let her go.” Death’s shadows spiraled forward, halting at the back of Fate’s neck when the man brushed his thumb across Signa’s throat.
“We’ll have none of that.” Fate didn’t so much as look up to acknowledge Death’s threat. “You may have reign over the dead and dying, but let’s not forget that it’s my hand that controls the fates of the living. For as long as she breathes, this one is mine.”
The cold snapped from the room as Death stilled. Signa struggled against Fate’s grasp, but the man held tight. He bent, nearly nose to nose as he inspected her. And while no words were spoken, a searching look lurked within his ancient eyes. Something so dark and fevered that she bit her tongue, not daring to make a move against this man who had stilled even Death.
In a whisper, Fate asked, “Miss Farrow, have you any idea who I am?”
Looking at him was like gazing into the sun. The longer Signa stared, the hazier the world became, streaks of sunlight bursting across her vision. His voice was going misty, too, the words soft as cream as they clotted together.
Signa’s temples pulsed with a blossoming headache. “Only by name,” she managed, nearly gasping the words. From his touch to his voice, everything about this man was scalding.
Fate’s grip on her face tightened, holding her focus. “Think harder.”
“There’s nothing to think of, sir.” If she didn’t get away from him quickly, her head was going to split open. “I’ve never seen you a day in my life.”
“Is that so?” Fate released his grip. Though his severity was plain, there was something familiar about his rage. Something that reminded Signa of the helpless fledgling she’d held in her hands months ago, or of the wounded animals she’d come across in the woods. As Fate rolled his shoulders back and dusted off his cravat, Death swept in, shadows swathing Signa. He eased her against his chest, curling a hand around her waist.