“You intend to marry my cousin,” she admonished. “You should mind your tongue.”
Aris took another glass of champagne as it passed, and if Blythe had to guess, she’d say it wasn’t his second. “I have no interest in you, Miss Hawthorne, though getting you riled up isn’t without its appeal. You should see my brother’s face right now.”
Blythe huffed and adjusted her gown, patting down the crinoline. Only when she was certain that she wouldn’t flush again did she turn back to him, her retort ready. But all at once Aris was a prince again, poised with such confidence and pride that he seemed like the tallest man in the room. Blythe realized why a moment later when she saw Eliza and Everett Wakefield enter Foxglove. It took her a moment to notice that Charlotte was at his side, their arms linked. Upon Charlotte’s left hand was a sapphire ring, the sight of which had Blythe’s vision spiraling.
It was official, then. They were engaged.
Charlotte’s smile was as radiant as the moon. Everett’s matched it as he leaned down to whisper something that had her giggling. He looked like the happiest man alive to have earned such a sound, and while Blythe wanted to let herself fill with warm butterflies and celebrate her friend, she wondered whether that ring had come at the cost of a duke’s life, and if her father was going to be the one to pay its price.
Eliza, unlike the others, looked as though she’d been caught out at sea in a storm. She was haggard and weary, and while fashionable in a pleasant blue gown, she seemed too queasy to be here. Her hair was too long, pinned meticulously at the nape of her neck, but as stringy as the kelp Blythe had seen while looking over the precarious cliffside Foxglove sat upon. No cramps were this bad for this long; something was truly wrong.
Only then did Blythe notice her uncle standing behind the Wakefields. His frown was so severe that Blythe’s anxiety spiked as she thought of the note Signa had left her. As Byron made a beeline for Eliza, so did she. He stilled when he spotted her, then turned on his heel. Whatever he had to say to Eliza, it seemed it was not worth it while in Blythe’s vicinity.
Eliza didn’t appear to have noticed Byron. She was too focused on the space between Blythe and Aris. “Did the two of you arrive together?” Eliza asked without so much as a greeting. No matter how ill she appeared, it was a relief that she was still behaving as herself. She attempted a wobbling curtsy to the prince, and Blythe was clearly not alone in her concern, given that Aris took hold of Eliza’s arm and helped her straighten.
“You don’t look well.” Blythe didn’t mince her words, for vanity would do Eliza no favors. “We should find you a room to lie down in.”
Eliza stood as tall as she could manage. “I assure you that I am fine, Miss Hawthorne. Don’t you dare rob me of this opportunity when the season is nearly at its end.”
Blythe hadn’t expected the spite in her tone and was about to chastise Eliza for her foolery when the shadow trailing them jerked to the side. Blythe tracked it, watching as it slipped up the stairs just as Signa was descending.
Blythe’s knees buckled as though someone had pulled the rug from beneath her. She had half a mind to escape behind Aris and hide among the crowd but, given how Signa missed a step and had to catch herself on the banister when her eyes caught Blythe’s, it seemed she’d lost her opportunity to hide.
With Byron acting suspicious and Eliza looking ready to fall over at any moment, Blythe knew there was no choice but for her to face Signa, needing all the assistance she could get. For the sake of her father she dipped her head, and it was enough of an acknowledgment that Signa’s chest sank with visible relief as she hurried down the remaining stairs.
“Blythe.” Signa’s voice was winded, and her eyes flicked once behind the group, casting a furtive look toward the shadow—toward Death. Blythe tried not to shiver at how distracted Signa seemed. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I didn’t expect to come. Yet given my father’s position, I had no choice but to see what you wanted.”
Signa’s throat bobbed as she stepped closer, letting her lips curl into a false smile to greet the crowd around them. “I understand your lack of trust in me, but I’m glad you came. Rest assured that tonight we will save Elijah.”
That much, at least, was certain. Though as Blythe watched her cousin step away, greeting Everett and Eliza as a shadow trailed her every step, she hoped that Elijah was not the only soul that Blythe would save tonight.
Signa thanked the others for coming all this way, her eyes never leaving Eliza while Blythe stood there, numb. The tapestry warmed her skin, and Blythe absently pressed a hand against it as her eyes found Aris’s. He watched Signa with a predatory gleam, assessing her every movement as if to decide when to strike. The shadow in the corner stood across from him. Blythe tried not to look at Death so obviously, though she was beginning to make out a face in those shadows.
“Why don’t we head up to the ballroom?” Blythe forced her attention away from all of them. “Signa, could you show us the way?”
Signa’s smile wavered, and she looped her arm through Eliza’s.
Blythe tried not to let that bother her. Tried not to stare as she told herself that this wasn’t Signa’s way of saying she’d already found a replacement for Blythe, but because Eliza looked one strong breeze away from a collapse. Still, Blythe longed for the days when she would be the one beside Signa, gossiping and chatting about the most recent book they’d read.
“Is something wrong with Eliza?” Blythe stuck with Charlotte and Everett, speaking too quietly for the others to hear. “She’s remarkably pale.”
“I’m certain there is, but she won’t tell us what.” Everett didn’t bother to conceal his contempt as he glared at Blythe, widening their berth. She was so taken aback by his ferocity that for a second she stopped walking. The Everett she’d known had always been so polite. She liked him a little better with his scowl, though would have preferred that it not be aimed at her.
“I understand if you’re not the biggest fan of my family,” Blythe began, “but my father is innocent. The wrong man is set to hang.” With each word, Blythe searched Everett for any sign of nerves. Any sign that he was worried Blythe suspected his involvement. And yet he only cut her a scathing look, jaw clenched.
“I’ve no idea how to act around you, Miss Hawthorne, for I do not wish anyone else to suffer as I have. I am sorry that you’re to lose your father, but I cannot be upset by justice.” Everett turned then, hurrying the rest of the way up the steps without any regard for Blythe.
Charlotte stared after him, her lips pressed into a small frown. “We can’t change the verdict, Blythe. Your father was found guilty.”
So ragged was Blythe’s breathing that she’d begun to shake. She folded her hands, pressing them against herself and biting her tongue until she tasted blood. She wanted to tell Charlotte exactly how suspicious she was of each of them but focused instead on the warmth from the tapestry that pulsed against her skin.
She would not give them the time to form clever excuses by giving away her suspicions. Not yet.
Blythe hadn’t noticed they’d arrived inside the ballroom until Charlotte hurried away, leaving her surrounded by strangers in bustling gowns and servants passing gilded trays of dainty sweets and fizzing drinks. Behind her, Eliza was speaking to Signa in low, hushed tones, though her cousin hardly seemed to be paying attention. Signa’s jaw was clenched, and Blythe followed her eyes to one corner of the ballroom, where Death’s shadows were erratic as he moved toward Signa and back again, faster than Blythe’s eyes could keep up with.
Blythe’s heart leaped to her throat when a champagne flute swept from the table beside her and shattered onto the floor. Not even Death had been standing near enough to knock it aside.