“Are you going to kill it?” she asked, unable to hide her unease. Though she understood that was the entire point of the day and that she had agreed to come, the whole thing felt hopelessly cruel.
Aris held the kit out toward her. “I hear some people like to wear them. Someone could make it into a scarf.”
She blanched. “You wouldn’t.”
He drew the kit back into his chest, cradling it there as though it were a newborn child. “Of course I wouldn’t. Do I look like a barbarian?” He brushed a hand down its dark fur, taking great care with his touch. “We can’t just let the beast go. The hounds will find it in no time if it keeps making that awful noise. Besides, I don’t think it’s old enough to hunt for itself.”
Blythe brushed a soft hand down the fox’s back, careful to avoid touching the prince. “It’s only making that noise because it’s frightened. It can’t help it.”
“Frightened or not, it”—he paused and stretched the fox out again, inspecting its lower half—“excuse me, she is as good as dead if we leave her here.”
Blythe’s gaze flew upward, checking for any sign that he might be joking. Yet his too-bright eyes were as serious as ever, and already he was marching back to his horse. Blythe sighed and hiked up her skirts to follow him.
“You want to bring home a wild fox?” she asked.
“Would I be correct to assume that you’ve a carriage waiting for you at the Wakefields’ manor?” He grimaced as the kit squirmed in his grip. “Be still and stop your fussing, you beastly thing.” Despite the harshness of his words, Aris’s voice was admiringly soft.
Blythe had to shake off her surprise before she could answer. “Of course. Though wouldn’t you want to use yours—”
“And dirty it with a wild animal?” He looked back at her as though she’d sprouted a third eye. “I think not. Yours will do fine.”
Blythe reeled in her temper, telling him only that he was horribly impolite for a prince, which he accepted as a compliment. She kept behind him with the horses in tow. The more she thought about his words, however, the more Blythe realized that she hadn’t seen any carriage fine enough to belong to a prince when she’d arrived.
It made her wonder—where was the rest of the royal family? And why had she never heard of Prince Aris or the country of Verena before? She tried to remember whether she’d seen them the night of Aris’s ball, though most of that night at Wisteria was a haze upon her memories. She remembered walking in. She remembered speaking with the prince and dancing with him… and then she remembered being back in the carriage with Signa, on their way home.
There were gaps in her memory she hadn’t recognized before. Huge, glaring holes that filled her with unease.
“We can use my carriage,” she said at last, forcing the words out. There wasn’t enough time to muse over strange memory lapses and even stranger possibilities. Especially not when he might notice. “We’ll drop the horses off with the groom and—” She cut off as she saw one of the Wakefields’ stable boys bringing Eliza’s horse into a stall. It seemed Eliza was too ill to continue her ride.
Perhaps it was because of everything she’d suffered through this past year, or because she knew that Eliza could very well be living with a killer, but something about the situation clawed at Blythe with a ferocity she couldn’t ignore. She gripped the reins tight and hurried toward the manor, not waiting for Aris to protest as she called back to him, “Wait for me in the carriage! I’ll be right behind you!”
THIRTY
BLYTHE
THE WAKEFIELD MANOR WAS NOT THE SORT OF PLACE ONE WOULD write home about. It was a stately building, well maintained and warmed by its rich tones and deep mahogany wood. Blythe had visited it several times over the years and was always underwhelmed by its simplicity. It had neither Thorn Grove’s oddities nor the extravagant beauty of Wisteria Gardens. No fascinating art or scenery, or really anything to make it stand out or feel lived in. Disregarding its size, the manor was, simply put, a painfully ordinary home.
Blythe kept close to the walls as she slipped inside, walking on her toes so that the heels of her boots would not clack against the floor. Much of the staff was preparing for the men to return from the hunt. The butler barked orders, sending two young maids Blythe didn’t recognize fleeing from the parlor with pillows in hand.
“Careful!” a feminine voice chided him. “We want to indoctrinate the poor girls, not send them running off in fear.”
Blythe alerted at the voice as a short woman with rosy cheeks bustled out of the room with a serving tray in hand. It had been some time since Blythe had seen her, but she at once recognized her as Sorcha Lemonds, Eliza’s lady’s maid.
Blythe was halfway through deciding her next step when Sorcha spotted her and almost dropped her serving tray.
“Heavens, Miss Hawthorne! You’re going to make an old woman catch her doom by skulking around in the corners like that. What are you doing here?” Her voice was sharp and abrupt, the words blending together in a uniquely northern accent that Blythe had always enjoyed listening to.
“Miss Wakefield and I were riding together when she took ill,” Blythe said as she stepped away from the wall. “I came to check on her.”
“No need to worry yourself. She’s resting in her room. This bout will come and go like the rest of them.”
“The rest of them?” Blythe stood a full head taller than the woman, and yet she was racing to keep up as the maid ascended the steps without spilling a drop of the tea she carried.
“Her headaches, dear. They’re growing more frequent. I keep telling her to try and rest, but she only prattles on about needing to secure a good match her first year out. It’s ridiculous, if you ask me. But does she listen? Of course not.”
Only when the words were spoken aloud did Blythe realize that the past several times she’d seen Eliza, the young woman had been a sickly green or so ashen that she’d seemed ghostly, always complaining of a sour stomach. Her eyes immediately focused on the steam curling from the teapot.
They had never found the person responsible for poisoning Blythe. The staff had been culled, and eventually she was able to make a full recovery, but… what if the culprit had moved on to Eliza?
“She’s still getting those?” Blythe was wading into unfamiliar waters, unused to this delicate extraction of information. She wanted to take Sorcha by the shoulders and demand answers, but the Wakefield family had always been so proper. One wrong move, and she was certain they’d enact some sort of polite protocol to toss her from the manor. “How long has she been having the headaches now? It seems like it’s been ages.”
“They started just before her uncle passed, though I swear on my late mother’s grave that they’ve been worse since that night.” The woman crossed herself. “I think it’s the stress. I’ve never seen her in such a state.”
Blythe pressed her trembling hands against her sides to keep them from being noticed. “Why don’t I bring her the tea? If Eliza is feeling as down as you say, I’m sure she could use the company.”
Sorcha’s grip held tight as Blythe tried to pry the serving tray away. Though it was clear she wanted to deny Blythe’s advance, a crash sounded from the kitchen. The maid squeezed her eyes shut, muttering words beneath her breath in a language Blythe didn’t recognize before she handed over the tray.
“Very well, Miss Hawthorne. You remember where her room is?”
“Down the hall, third door on the right.” Blythe flashed a smile she hoped was charming enough to keep Sorcha away before she hurried up the stairs. Only when certain she was alone did Blythe slump against the nearest corner, breathing in rasps. Her hands shook fiercely enough to clatter the teapot, and she had to sink down the wall and set it on the floor before the noise summoned anyone.
Blythe knew in her bones that she had no choice but to test the tea. Yet despite her efforts, her hammering heart had her pulling back each and every time she tried to pick up the teacup.