“You’re going to be fine.” Signa tried to imitate the familiar tone Death used to placate restless spirits, though she was doing a lousy job with her wavering voice. “If you choose to keep the child, tell Everett. He’s a good man. But if for some reason he chooses not to be, you and your child will have a home here at Foxglove should you need it. And if you choose not to have the child, then we’ll find a safer way to help you without those herbs.”
Signa stood, seizing hold of Eliza’s wrist and helping the girl to her feet. Eliza’s body was as light as a feather, and though she seemed remarkably improved, she still swayed with each step.
“We’ll make sure Everett knows not to worry about you,” Signa promised as she wiped some of the dirt away from Eliza’s brow, thinking through an inconspicuous way to get her safely into a guest suite. “Know that you will be fine, Eliza, and so will your child. You won’t be left alone.”
“Why would you protect me?” Eliza asked, more a demand than a question, with each word tense and clipped. “As much as we may pretend, we are not friends. I’m the reason your uncle is in prison.”
It was fair to ask, though Signa had no answer to give. Had the father of this child been anyone else, would she still protect Eliza? Blythe would have probably thrown her to the wolves to save her father, and wouldn’t that have been fair, too?
“You did everything to protect yourself and your child. I can’t fault you for that.” There was no true and correct path that she could see, but this one felt the most right.
Eliza stared at her for a long moment, eventually reaching forward to clasp Signa by the hand. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking as though she was about to say more when a heavy thudding sounded behind them.
Signa recognized Byron’s footsteps before she saw him, his walking stick clutched tight as he looked to Eliza with such a rawness that Signa worried she’d mistaken him for someone else. He hurried through the garden, poppies crushing beneath his boots as he took hold of her shoulders. Byron was no fool; one look at the blood and mud on her gown was enough for his eyes to mist. His lips trembled, opening to try to find words when Eliza steadied her hand over the one that fisted his walking stick.
“We’re fine,” she whispered, shifting her free hand to her belly. “Both of us.”
Thank God they were near a tree, for Byron had to reach out to balance himself, threatening to crumble beneath the weight of his relief.
“They’re aware?” he asked coolly, to which Eliza nodded.
“They are. And it’s because of them that I am well, so do mind your tongue, Byron.”
Blythe and Signa shared a look, though Blythe was quick to turn away. Already he was shrugging out of his coat to drape it around Eliza.
“I’ll fetch a maid to help clean you up,” he promised, voice low with sincerity. “No one will know anything about this.”
It seemed even a man as severe as Byron could be undone by a baby.
“Find Miss Bartley,” Signa noted. “She won’t tell anyone what she’s seen.”
He nodded, waiting until Eliza gained her footing enough to loop her arm through his before making the short trek back to Foxglove. The fog enveloped them like a wanting maw, and any hope Signa had left faded as it swallowed their figures whole.
This was truly the end, then. Without anyone to pin the blame on, Elijah would hang.
Blythe seemed to be thinking the same thing, for she stepped forward. “My father can’t be made to take the fall.” Any trace of emotion had disappeared beneath her mask of stone. She reached into her corset and pulled out a small swath of gold fabric, which she held out to Signa with the utmost severity. “We only have one way to fix this.”
Around them, Death turned the world to ice as Blythe held her cousin’s stare.
It couldn’t be what she thought it was… and yet when Signa took the tapestry, the heat of it stung so sharply that she dropped it and clutched her hand to her chest to nurse an invisible wound. “What is that?”
Blythe drew a breath, and with her exhale she seemed to morph into someone else entirely. Someone so cold and unfeeling that when her eyes narrowed on Signa’s, Blythe almost didn’t seem human.
“This is how you fix your mess,” Blythe told her. “You’re going to marry Aris.”
FORTY
SIGNA’S HEART HAD NEVER FELT SO HEAVY AS IT DID WITH THE TAPESTRY laid before her, Blythe’s hand still atop it. There was a challenge in her cousin’s eyes. One that Signa could not dismiss, regardless of the weariness that settled over her.
“How long have you known what he is?” she whispered.
“Not quite so long as I’ve known what you are.” Blythe drew her hand back, face set with grave severity. She didn’t blink as her eyes bore into Signa’s, waiting for her next move as though this were a game of chess.
Behind Blythe, Death bristled enough to quake the trees, and Signa had to risk shooting him a glare before a storm broke overhead.
“This isn’t the way,” he all but raged, words striking like a lance. “We will find another.”
Perhaps, though with Fate’s warning about bringing a soul back from the dead, Signa could not see that path, nor did they have the time to find it. Blythe was right to call this Signa’s mess, and she had a responsibility to protect this family.
Go, she told Death, for it would do neither of them any good to have him here for this conversation. Signa squared her shoulders, unflinching beneath the intensity of her cousin’s stare. I need to talk to her alone.
Signa—
Go. Please.
Death seemed at war with himself, thunder cracking as the shadows of the night flickered, irate. It was only as his attention strayed toward Foxglove that the pressure in the air eased. Don’t do anything foolish was all he said before he disappeared toward it, and Signa knew without a sliver of a doubt that he and his brother were to have a conversation of their own.
Alone now, Blythe kept a careful distance that Signa felt like a knife to her side. Gone was the girl she’d laughed with in the snow and spent late nights gossiping with over tea. Gone was the friend she’d viewed as a sister, and in her place stood a woman Signa didn’t recognize.
“I don’t know what Aris has told you about me,” Signa began, praying that she could find the right words. “I don’t know what he’s told you about himself, either, but it’s not safe to trust him.”
“I don’t care whether it’s safe.” Blythe cradled the tapestry against her stomach. Her voice was surprisingly calm, lacking the bite that Signa expected. “You’re not safe, either, Signa. I watched you take a life with a single touch. You took my brother’s, too. He was going to have a child! Now that child has no father, we have no alibi, and my father is withering away in a cell and set to hang in a week. I won’t let him die for this.” The tapestry’s warmth radiated toward Signa as Blythe extended it to her. It took everything in her not to draw back.
“I know Aris is no prince,” Blythe continued. “But whatever he is, he has power. In return for you marrying him, he’s agreed to free my father.”
The warmth was seeping into Signa’s skin now, and inch by inch it felt as though she were being set aflame. Her breaths were as thin as the memories from earlier pressed against her mind.
“Don’t you think that’s odd?” Signa could barely form the words as she stared down at the golden haze that surrounded the tapestry, so bright that it was painful. “He shows up out of nowhere and wants to marry me? And he won’t help us unless we agree?”
“He knows about the shadows that follow you. He doesn’t want you near them.”
Only then did Signa reach forward to snatch the tapestry from Blythe’s hands. It took everything in her not to drop to her knees as the burn tore through her.
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Signa hissed, double-checking that her hand hadn’t turned to char. “Do you even know what those shadows are?”
For the shortest moment, Signa could have sworn that Blythe’s face softened, her gaze gone watery. Such tenderness, however, was fleeting, there and gone in seconds.
“Even his name is dangerous,” Blythe said. “I don’t dare speak it out loud.”