Blythe’s hands balled into fists. Nothing would please her more than to stuff socks into every bystander’s mouth to stop such ludicrous gossip. Yes, her family had suffered great tragedies of late. And yes, she supposed Thorn Grove was a little strange with its odd decor and general dreariness, but there was nothing supernatural about any of it.
At least… she certainly hoped there wasn’t. Little by little, though, Blythe had to admit that a sliver of doubt had begun to fill the darkest crevices of her mind with wild, impossible ideas. Inklings that perhaps there was more to this situation than she could see on the surface, for there had lately been too many nights when she awoke at the witching hour to memories of knocking on death’s door.
She remembered little about those feverish moments months ago when it had felt like a veil had been cast over reality, distancing her from real life. But her dreams did not have the same haze over those memories. In them, she remembered how her father had held her hair back as she lost what little remained in her stomach. She remembered how he’d blamed the governess, Marjorie, and how Signa had been speaking with someone—a faceless, shapeless figure that no one else seemed able to see.
In her dreams, Blythe remembered something strange stirring inside her, something light and warm that pulsed every time she’d been meant to die. She’d felt it days before Signa had arrived, and again on the night Percy had disappeared from Thorn Grove. Even now a tight, hot coil squeezed in the center of her chest, tightening and tightening until it felt as though she could barely breathe around it. It was nice sometimes—a balmy, pleasant reminder of all she’d overcome. Other times, like there in her sitting room, it blazed within her and made settling impossible.
Thinking of the man who’d accused her father only made it worse. Never in her life had Blythe seen the man with golden-brown skin and eyes as blinding as the sun, though she supposed that meant little, considering she’d been ill for nearly a full year and hadn’t the faintest clue who a great deal of people were these days.
He had the appearance and self-righteousness of a noble, but whether he was a prince or a duke or God himself come down from the heavens to smite them all, the man was a fool to come into her home and accuse her father. For all she knew, he could have been the killer, and she intended to make that point known to anyone who would listen.
Only when the sun had officially ascended did Blythe force herself to try to settle, flitting from the table to the bed, then back out into the sitting room to find whichever chair might best help with that effort. Having refused the help of her maid earlier in the evening, Blythe was left to claw at whatever parts of her corset she could reach, trying to give herself room to breathe. She eventually fell upon a chaise and kicked her boots onto the table before her. It felt like hours passed as she stared thoughtlessly up at the ceiling, and she practically leaped to her feet when a knock sounded at the door. Her hair was certain to be a mess, and surely the bare hint of rouge she’d worn on her lips and face had smudged. Yet she made no effort to make herself presentable because there was only one thing that mattered.
“Father?” She tried to conceal the severity of her disappointment when it turned out to be Elaine Bartley, her lady’s maid, who stood at the threshold.
“There’s no word of him yet, miss.” Elaine made her way into the sitting room, observing Blythe’s state with a solemn frown.
Though Blythe would have preferred news above all else, her longing could not be disguised when she caught sight of the tray of tea and pastries Elaine set on the table.
“I thought you might still be up. Miss Farrow is, too. And Mr. Warwick. Breakfast will be ready in another two hours, though I thought you might be hungry since I doubt you’ve slept a wink.”
Blythe was hungry. Ravenously so. But before she could pour herself a cup of tea, Elaine added, “How about we get you into something more comfortable? I don’t imagine a ball gown is ideal for either sleeping or eating.” Despite the daylight peeking in from behind the curtains, Elaine acquired a nightgown and helped Blythe change into it. It was only then, so close to Elaine, that Blythe saw how red rimmed and squinty the woman’s eyes were. Elaine pressed a hand to her forehead, looking unsteady on her feet.
“Are you ill?” Blythe asked, holding her breath a little just in case. Only having just gotten back on her feet, the last thing she wanted was to catch a sickness that could ruin her progress.
Elaine’s cheeks flushed. “On and off, miss, though I expect it’s nothing more than the ragweed. The pollen gets the best of me every year.” Elaine stepped away so that Blythe could smooth out her nightgown. It was far more comfortable than her previous attire, as light as air. She looked toward a freestanding mirror to see how horrid a state she was in, yet it was Elaine’s reflection that captured Blythe’s attention.
Cold terror raced through her, seizing hold of Blythe as she stared at a reflection with purple bags under her eyes and a withering, skeletal frame. The Elaine in the mirror was little more than flesh clinging to bone, and Blythe’s throat thickened around a scream she couldn’t summon. She couldn’t stop shaking, nor could she look away as the gaunt face twisted toward her, every facial bone and the outline of each tooth visible through paper-thin skin as Elaine asked, “Have you caught a chill?”
Her voice was the scratch of branches against a windowpane, so abrasive that Blythe fell back as the familiar weight of sickness seized her. Perhaps she had fallen asleep, and this was all a dream—for what else was there to explain the wisps of shadows that seeped into Elaine’s skin and spread through her like a blight?
Blythe tore her gaze away, breathing so heavily that the maid took Blythe’s hands to steady her. Every inch of Blythe’s body went cold.
“Miss?” Elaine whispered. “Miss Hawthorne, are you well?”
This time Blythe did scream, her heart lodged in her throat as she spun away from the woman’s skeletal touch. Except… there was nothing skeletal about it. The Elaine who stood before her was the one Blythe had always known. Even when Blythe glanced from the maid to the mirror once more, the reflected Elaine was full-bodied and—aside from the red-rimmed and glossy eyes—appeared to be in perfect health.
Blythe swallowed. If she wasn’t dreaming, then perhaps she was delirious from lack of sleep? She looked pointedly away from Elaine, trying to settle her stomach before her sickness spilled onto the floor and she gave Elaine a reason to remain in her room even a second longer.
“A break would do you some good.” Blythe’s voice trembled with every forced word as she tried to cast away the oddity of what she’d just witnessed. “You ought to take the day off.”
The last time Blythe had seen hallucinations… No. She couldn’t be getting poisoned again. She refused to even consider it.
“That’s kind of you, but I wouldn’t dream of it,” Elaine said. “What kind of person would I be if I were to leave you and your cousin now?” As Blythe sat down, Elaine crouched to help work off her long white gloves. It took everything in Blythe not to flinch as Elaine’s fingers grazed her bare skin.
Cold. Elaine’s fingers were so, so cold.
Elaine, fortunately, made quick work of the task and rose to her feet. “I’m not much of a fan of idle time anyways. Especially these days.” She spoke those last words so ominously that Blythe understood at once that she was referring to all that had happened within Thorn Grove as of late. The rumors of spirits or ghosts or whatever one wanted to call them, and the strange string of murders.