Death did not turn his face from the hall where Fate had disappeared, though his shadows shrank with the retreating threat. “I think that no matter what my brother says, it’s safe to assume that he’s always up to something.”
That much was clear enough. If Fate wanted to, he could give her the answers she sought. Instead, she felt as though she was falling deeper and deeper into a cleverly spun web, waiting to be feasted on.
“Would it truly be so bad for me to revive Elijah?” She gripped him tight, unsure how much longer they’d have together. “It couldn’t possibly be any worse than dealing with your brother.”
Death’s shadows swept toward Signa. He pulled her against him in a sudden rush, and oh how she wanted to kiss him. Yet Death kept his face at a distance, mindful of her bare skin. “Foolish as my brother may be, for once I agree with him. You have seen firsthand the cost of keeping someone alive, Little Bird. Imagine what the cost might be for bringing them back from the dead.”
Truthfully, Signa never wanted to find out. Still, frustration ate at her, nerves bundling in her stomach. “What then? We continue to play his game?”
“We continue to play his game,” Death echoed, tucking the silver strands behind her ear and cupping her face between his gloved palms. “Only this time, we play to the end.”
THIRTY-FIVE
BLYTHE
TWO DAYS AFTER HER FATHER HAD BEEN SENTENCED TO HANG, Blythe received an invitation.
She held it tight, reading the words once, twice, then three times more before the reality of them settled over her.
Signa Farrow had invited her to a ball. The woman who had killed her brother—but who Blythe now understood was being influenced by Death himself—had invited both her and Byron to attend a soiree at Foxglove little more than a week before her father was set to hang.
For the first half hour Blythe spent staring at the invitation, she had done so while inwardly fuming at Signa’s gall. The next half hour she brainstormed what ulterior motives could possibly be at play. Finally, she set the invitation down on the table and took to pacing around the drawing room. With every step she was all too aware of the small tapestry tucked beneath her corset.
During the weeks that Signa had been gone, Blythe had spent every day filling her diary with theories while coming to terms with the fact that there would be no more social calls to scrounge up for herself. She could barely show her face in tea shops since her father’s verdict, and following the gossip had become near impossible. As much time as she spent plotting ways to break the news about Everett’s potential motive and cast a doubtful light upon him, she doubted there was a single person alive who’d believe her. Which meant that after everything she’d done, Blythe had nothing to show for sleuthing other than a horrifying skeletal hallucination of Eliza Wakefield burned into her brain and a tapestry that could change her fate.
It was warm against her skin, the threads around it more visible by the day. Blythe should have been surprised by all she’d learned or by the ease with which Aris had controlled her. Yet why should she be surprised when she herself had seen the shadows that trailed behind her cousin, and how both her lady’s maid and Eliza had looked sickly and skeletal one moment only to be perfectly healthy the next? Blythe had seen threads of gold sewed into the air itself, and hands that could take a life as easily as they could give one. She believed everything Aris had told her.
He was a strange man, and while she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him, Blythe couldn’t help but recall his determination as he’d stomped through the woods to save a fox he’d then held bundled in his arms. He couldn’t be that bad. He was powerful, yes, but so was Signa. Besides, far less favorable marriages had been made before. Even if Signa was angry—even if Death’s hold on her was so fierce that she retaliated—Blythe would be doing her a favor. By the end of this mess, perhaps Signa would realize that. Perhaps things between them could someday return to normal, and Blythe wouldn’t have to lose her, too.
Blythe clutched the tapestry against her chest a moment longer before she moved to the desk, confident in what she had to do as she took up a pen and parchment and wrote Aris a letter.
On June the first, Miss Farrow will be holding a ball at Foxglove. I will be there with the tapestry and hope that you will accompany me.
She copied down the details, then tucked the letter into an envelope, sealed it with wax, and sent William to take it to Wisteria at once.
He returned three hours later with Aris’s response.
I would not miss it for the world.
THIRTY-SIX
IT WAS REMARKABLE HOW QUICKLY FOXGLOVE TOOK SHAPE, SHEDDING its dusty drabness in favor of a poised and proper seaside manor. Signa had hired more help than she knew what to do with, and they’d been working around the clock to scrub every wall and floor panel until the water bucket ran clear. The once dreary curtains were shaken out, brightening into a lighter color than she ever would have guessed them to be. The furniture had been dusted, and the piano tuned and polished. Gone were any hints of cobwebs or the skeletal remains of rats, and as Signa ran a white-gloved finger along a bookcase in the parlor, not even a speck of dust made it onto the fabric.
It’d taken even more elbow grease than she’d anticipated, but the Foxglove she stood in now was a home to take pride in, one all who entered would respect. With the ball mere hours away, they’d made it so just in time.
“Everything looks fabulous,” Signa told the staff, all standing at attention as she paced from the parlor to the entryway, checking that everything was in place. “You’ve all done a better job than I could have hoped for.” There was a quiet, collective sigh of relief within the group. Signa’s eyes found Elaine’s at once, and the young woman shot her an apologetic look. The staff had been in a tizzy since the night of Fate’s visit, likely never having imagined their new mistress would be hosting company so prestigious as a prince, especially in a house that—until now—had looked a disaster. She didn’t doubt that word had gotten out of how she’d refused to offer the prince any refreshments, and she heard whispers of how strange it was that Signa hadn’t wanted to swap out the strange macabre art in favor of something livelier.
She waited for the staff to scurry off to give everything one final pass before she turned her attention to the trio of spirits that stared up at her from the couch. She’d learned their names in these past weeks—Tilly was the daughter, Victoria the mother, and Oliver the bespectacled father who observed everything with a keen eye. He had, Signa learned, spent years working with her father in architecture.
“What dress will you wear tonight? Will it be marvelous?” Tilly asked with a note of longing. “You should choose carefully in case you die. Imagine being stuck in a corset every moment for the rest of your life.”
“There are far more important things to worry about tonight. Though, if you must know, yes. My dress will be marvelous.” Though Signa admittedly hadn’t considered the potential tragedy of dying in it, she certainly was now. “And if I die, it will hardly matter because I would never remain here with all of you. The afterlife isn’t so bad, you know.”
“You’ve seen it?” Tilly’s eyes bulged so wide that Signa feared they might burst from her skull. If that was a possibility with spirits, she had no desire to find out.
“Only the entrance, but it’s beautiful.” Signa had grown used to keeping her voice low for the spirits, but she glanced cautiously around all the same before she added, “Unless you want to see it tonight, I need you all to be on your best behavior.”