“I never thought I’d have the chance to speak with you.” Amity took a seat beside Signa on the edge of the hearth. “I planned to leave once I saw you settled… though it wasn’t only for you that I stayed. I’d hoped that the others would be out of their awful loops by now.” Amity’s eyes lifted to the stairs, toward the ballroom.
Signa followed her gaze. “You care for that woman, don’t you? For Briar?”
“More than words could ever describe.” Amity’s smile reminded Signa of the twig she held between her fingertips, poised to crack at the slightest pressure. “But still she does not know it. I can’t leave here without her.”
Signa had no question that, were she in Amity’s position, she, too, would wander the halls for an eternity before she willingly left Death behind. What torture that would be—while Briar had no idea what was happening outside her loop, Amity spent her days aware of every moment. Signa’s heart ached at the thought, and though she knew it was unwise to get involved, she couldn’t help but think back to Henry.
Her mouth opened, and Signa was seconds away from making Amity a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep when Death’s chill frosted over the parlor, tamping the flames.
His presence was like none she was used to. This was no invitation to be swept away for a dance or to enjoy each other’s company. This was the chill of a body buried six feet under—the chill of a Death she had met only once before, on the night he’d tried to take Blythe.
Though Signa could not see him, she knew in the marrow of her bones that something was horribly wrong.
“What is it?” The question sliced through her throat, because she already knew the answer. Even before Gundry pressed against her hip with a whimper and Amity’s eyes turned to hollow, lifeless things, Signa knew.
“Elijah has been found guilty for the murder of Lord Julius Wakefield.” Amity’s voice rang as strong as a church bell, each word a strike that had Signa unsteady. “He’s set to hang in two weeks’ time.” The spirit cast her eyes toward where Death’s chill seeped into the earth. The floor beneath her was turning slick with frost.
Since the day she’d been banished to Foxglove, Signa had known this would happen. Still, she clung to the last piece of Death’s news like it was a life raft—two weeks. She may not have made progress on summoning Life’s powers yet, but she still had two weeks.
She needed only to ensure that they counted.
Signa almost missed the note tucked into Gundry’s collar until the hound scratched at it, nails snagging against the parchment. Gently, she pried it from him. The note was not in Death’s usual elegant font but in quickly scrawled letters.
Blythe has her eyes on the Wakefields. Charlotte and Everett have been courting for months—Lord Wakefield did not approve of an engagement.
Eliza has taken ill. I stayed with her overnight, though it doesn’t appear that anyone is harming her.
Byron has kept to his study. He locked himself inside after the verdict was read and cried.
It was a relief that Death had kept his letter short and precise, for each of his facts struck like a blow to the stomach. There was one final line on the parchment, cleaner and more precise.
I love you, Little Bird. We’re going to save him.
They would. They had to. Unfortunately, they could no longer do it alone.
Signa knew there was no getting around what came next. Knew there was no other choice as she told Death, “Find Fate, and bring him to me.”
THIRTY-FOUR
NEVER HAD FOXGLOVE FELT SO BRIGHT AS IT DID IN FATE’S PRESENCE.
The sky was painted a brilliant cerulean as the sun bore down without a single cloud to shade its path. Gone were the cawing crows, replaced by seagulls whose squawking through the open windows had Signa trying not to flinch as she watched Fate saunter through her parlor, bending or crouching or lifting onto his toes to inspect every piece of art that he saw.
“What a peculiar style.” It wasn’t criticism, yet Signa bristled all the same. It didn’t escape her notice that Fate was as well-groomed as the day she’d met him, looking every bit as regal as a prince. He was freshly barbered, his clothing pressed and his boots so glossy that Signa expected she’d be able to see her reflection in them.
Foxglove had never felt so much like the seaside summer manor she’d envisioned as it did with him roaming the halls, making the world so bright that Signa’s temples throbbed. She’d grown used to dreary days when the hearth ran constant and found a familiar comfort within them; a peace that settled her bones and made her feel at home. She should have known Fate’s arrival would destroy such a peace.
“Do you intend to give yourself a grand tour?” It was impossible to keep her hostility reined in. Signa hated the way he looked at Foxglove; hated how he inspected her family’s belongings, just as she hated that every time she looked at him, Fate’s face triggered the memory of a song she’d only recently managed to scrub from her mind.
“It is customary to show me around, though I suppose I can do without.” He showed no awareness of Death, whose chill settled against Signa’s skin, soothing her paranoia as Fate took a seat on a green velvet settee, crossing one leg over his knee and looking far more relaxed than Signa cared for. “I’ve wondered when you would reach out. I thought about visiting you myself, but knew it was only a matter of time before you’d decide to collect on our bargain.”
Signa had always hoped that the person she fell in love with would have a family that she could call her own. When it came to Death’s brother, however, she would have preferred to do without. “You knew I was at Foxglove all this time?”
“Not all of it, no.” Signa had offered him no tea, and Fate’s attention flicked down to the tea table in obvious offense. “Miss Hawthorne informed me rather recently. She told me other secrets, too, about the horse.”
It was an effort to keep her face smooth of the surprise that stole her breath. Surely, Blythe wouldn’t have told him such things; she barely knew Aris.
“I suppose this makes today’s conversation easier, then.” She fisted her dress when she caught herself picking at her cuticles. “I didn’t invite you here to make good on our bargain. I called you here because I need a favor.”
God, how she hated those words. Hated the gleam in his eyes as he tipped his chin to assess her.
“You know I don’t give anything for free, Miss Farrow.” He leaned against the cushion, propping his elbow on a pillow as Signa stepped from Death’s comforting chill and crossed to him.
“I assure you that this is a bargain you’ll like.” She glanced once behind her, wishing more than ever that she could see Death’s face in the shadows, needing his reassurance. Inviting Fate into Foxglove felt like slipping farther and farther from Death’s reach, but what choice did she have? For Elijah—for Blythe—she had to try.
“I need you to teach me how to use Life’s powers.”
Signa expected his face to turn smug. Expected his grin to stretch, or for him to look toward his brother and say something that would turn the floor to ice. What she got instead was a man who straightened as she looked at him, wearing not a hint of smugness as he told her, “Nothing would make me happier.”
Signa’s rage had her holding her breath as she took in his tailored pants and strange billowing white top that didn’t fit this era, and the earnestness on his face. She wanted him to be smug. Wanted a reason to despise him even while he was helping her. He was a bastard for giving her nothing.
“I may have Life’s powers,” she warned, “but nothing else has changed. I will not be made one of your toys, Fate. Do you understand?”
There was no nod. No argument. Fate only motioned to the cushion beside him and said, “Have a seat, Miss Farrow.”
It took a moment before she did, pressed fully against the opposite end of the settee with her hands bundled in her lap.