She leaned against the desk, leafing through sketches when the music of the ballroom swelled from above. There were voices, too. Guests making their way inside, likely searching for a host who wasn’t there to greet them.
Signa was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the bitter cold leaching into the room. Only when she heard his stirring did she turn to see that Death stood behind her in his human form. Her fingers slipped from the sketchbook, and when she turned to him fully, it was with tears in her eyes.
“Are you all right?” His voice wasn’t in her head. It was spoken aloud, and that was enough for Signa’s tears to come faster. Her body ached to run to him, and this time she did not hesitate to give in to that desire. Death went still as she locked her arms around his waist and pressed in.
“Signa…”
“I’m tired of goodbyes.” Signa burrowed her face into his chest. “I won’t say another one. We have to put an end to this. We need to stop—” She snapped her mouth shut with sudden realization.
It wasn’t unheard of for Death to appear. Large crowds were one of the best chances she had to see him, and tonight she’d not only invited the entire town but also guests from Celadon.
Tonight she had invited almost every single person in this world that she cared for.
Signa drew back, ice in her veins. She held on to the edge of the nightstand, her stomach sick. “Who is it? Who are you here for?”
Death took her gloved hand tight. Not lovingly, Signa realized, but to steady her as he answered, “I’ve come for Eliza Wakefield.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
BLYTHE
FOXGLOVE WAS MAZE OF A MANOR, WHERE EVERY ROOM FELT LIKE its own story.
The bottom floor portrayed an unassuming seaside home decorated with gentle blues and lattice trim, yet as one made their way upward, the home shifted into themes of flora and fauna with darkening wallpaper that grew wilder the closer one got to the grand ballroom.
Byron gave no sign of his own opinions of the manor. He’d hardly spoken two words to Blythe since Elijah’s verdict, and the gloom upon his face had grown increasingly darker by the day.
She’d separated from him the moment they’d arrived at Foxglove, and Byron had seemed relieved for it. Left to her own devices, Blythe searched for shadows as she scoured the manor’s lowest floor, careful to keep herself beneath the glittering glow of the chandelier. She cast paranoid glances over her shoulders, expecting Death to be waiting for her.
How many times had she escaped him now? Was he angry? Would he try to take her again the first chance he got?
Blythe remembered his cold claws around her throat and the way the chill had seeped through her skin and settled within her bones, stealing the breath she’d fought so hard for. She remembered Signa standing before him, pleading for Blythe’s life.
If Signa was a killer, why would she have fought so hard to save her? If she was out to get the Hawthorne family, she could have let Death take Blythe several times over. Instead, she and Percy together had brought Blythe the Calabar bean that spared her. It didn’t make sense that Signa would harm Percy; it had to have been Death’s hand pulling the strings.
Though Blythe knew nothing about the reaper and his powers, she felt safest beneath the light’s warm glow. When someone offered her a glass of champagne, she took it with a smile, only to set it down on a table the moment the staff turned away, not about to end up like the late Lord Wakefield. She’d managed to get this far without letting Death get hold of her, and she had no intention of that changing tonight.
“Why do you look like that?” The voice came from behind her, and Blythe turned to see Aris pick up her discarded champagne and take a long sip from the flute. Blythe stilled when he swallowed, silently counting the seconds to see whether he would keel over and die. It wouldn’t be without precedent, after all. Blythe had done enough investigating of the manor’s history to know that a plague of deaths would not be a new occurrence for Foxglove. Still, she let herself relax when Aris remained standing.
“Look like what?” she asked.
Aris twirled his champagne, taking his time to respond. “Like a fawn readying itself to flee.” He took two more sips and set down the empty flute. “It’s difficult not to notice. Your dress isn’t very discreet.”
Blythe flushed. She’d packed quickly, choosing gowns she thought would suit a seaside aesthetic. She hadn’t expected Foxglove to be quite so gloomy, though it seemed fitting that Signa would live in such a beautifully dreary place. As it was, Blythe had chosen a blush ballgown that skewed on the side of pink. It had pleated frills along the bottom, and collapsed sleeves laced with ivory. The crinoline she wore beneath her skirts was so full that it made it difficult to sleuth about. She hadn’t even thought to consider that issue.
“I was looking for him.” Blythe’s eyes flickered to the corners of the room yet again. Aris followed her gaze with a frown.
“I don’t think you’ll find him on the ceiling, love. And he’s not going to swoop down and kidnap you. Relax, little fawn, and tell me—have you got the tapestry?”
Blythe wasn’t at all convinced by Aris. Still, she answered, “I do.”
Aris squinted. “Where?”
“Don’t worry about that.” Blythe shot him an incredulous look. She distracted herself from the embarrassment of admitting it was pressed beneath her corset by taking in the sights of Foxglove.
While Blythe was no stranger to living in homes with unusual design aesthetics, there was something unsettling about Foxglove. Its interior was almost too bright and cheery against the encroaching rain clouds. It was a strange manor. Quaint and beautiful, but taller than it was wide and full of twisting turns she watched people disappear into. Most guests were making their way toward the ballroom, and Blythe’s eyes darted from one face to the next, each of them unfamiliar. It was as if she’d stepped off a train into a world where she did not belong, and into a house that had her so paranoid that she kept eyeing the strange portraits, half expecting them to blink back. Never had she felt so disoriented.
She was about to turn and head to the lawn for fresh air, unconvinced that she’d made the right decision by coming here, when a haze of darkness floated past the corner of her vision. Blythe stilled.
“Is that him?” she asked through a feigned smile, not wanting Death to realize that she could see him.
If Aris was faking his surprise, he was a better actor than she gave him credit for. “You truly can see him, then.”
“Did you think I was lying?” Blythe fought the urge to stare down the shadows. “If I couldn’t, then why would I have believed your ridiculous story?”
Aris pressed his lips together, considering. “You shouldn’t be able to see him so easily. I thought it possible that you had heard whispers somewhere along the way, though I suppose nearly dying several times did more of a number on you than I thought.”
“It’s not easy,” Blythe argued. If anything, it was a constant and mounting frustration. She didn’t know whether he had a face, or if he was nothing more than a bundle of shadows. She could see him only as shadowy haze and couldn’t fathom how Signa could have fallen for such a being. He wasn’t truly even a man… was he?
She blushed as soon as she considered the question, deciding it was best if she didn’t give that too much thought.
“What is he doing?” Blythe stood closer to the prince than she had any right to, and if anyone were to see them, they would certainly think Signa’s soiree most scandalous.
“He’s watching us,” Aris whispered. “Hurry and act like I’m seducing you.”
She smacked his hand away when he teasingly brushed his fingers across hers, hating that she could feel heat rushing to her cheeks.
“Have I ever told you that my favorite color is the very shade of red you turn when you’re flustered?” He was so close that Blythe could feel his breath against her cheeks, and she thought immediately of the intimate moment they’d shared at the Wakefield manor.