The girl’s laugh was brittle. “I have a name. It’s Blythe.” She didn’t seem to have the energy to lift herself from her pillows, though her glare never tired. “What are you doing in my room? Servants are forbidden from entering without permission.”
“My apologies, but I’m no servant. I’m your cousin, Signa Farrow.” She knew it wouldn’t be hard to make up an excuse to slip away. Blythe looked like she needed very little push until she was knocking on Death’s door, and Signa refused to play any part in it. Yet something about Blythe fastened Signa’s feet to the floor. Perhaps it was because the last time Signa had spoken to a girl near her own age had been years prior, back when she knew Charlotte Killinger. Or perhaps it was the desperation in Blythe’s eyes, and the fact that she seemed as starved for company as Signa. Whatever the reason, Signa remained.
“It’s rather dreary in here,” Signa said, pausing as she skimmed the shadows for any sign of Death. When she didn’t spot him, she relaxed, satisfied. “Shall I open a window?”
“Do you think I cannot manage a window on my own?” Though she made no effort to kick Signa out, each of Blythe’s words was clipped and deadly as poison. Signa suspected she could ask Blythe to sing a hymn, and the girl would somehow wield it like a weapon.
Signa had nothing to say to that. So much as a wrong breath would quite possibly get her head ripped off her neck and tossed out the window. Rather than answer, she took a seat on the edge of the four-poster bed. Her curiosity felt like the buzz one gets from coffee, making her fingertips twitch and fiddle at the hem of her dress. Signa looked her cousin over, assessing her. Pale skin, glum eyes, frail body… But Blythe didn’t smell like death. She didn’t smell like the spoiled sweetness of rot and disease. Her fingernails were cracked but not yellow or gray. And her giant blue eyes, despite their venom and the tired shadows that weighed them down, were clear of fog. “What are you sick with?” Signa asked.
“How bold you are,” Blythe scoffed. “If we knew that, perhaps I wouldn’t be stuck in this bed all day.” She dropped her head onto a pillow and sighed. “God forbid they send in someone tolerable to keep me company.”
Signa had the vague impression that Blythe knew no one had sent her and just wanted to take a jab at her. She ignored it and looked toward the door, thinking of the painting of the woman with twocolored eyes like her own. “I never imagined a place this large could feel so empty, even when there are so many people visiting,” Signa said absently. “Who else lives on this floor? I thought I heard someone in the room across from yours.”
The air went so frigid that Signa found herself wishing she hadn’t let Marjorie take her coat. Blythe’s eyes were icicles, ready to impale.
“You couldn’t have,” she whispered. “It belongs to my mother. No one’s been in there in ages.”
Before Signa could think about what the words might mean to someone not as closely associated with Death as she was, she asked, “You mean belonged, right? Your mother was Lillian Hawthorne?”
Those words were enough to melt the ice from Blythe and drown her. She turned a ghostly shade of white; even her lips paled. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but surprise halted her words. It took Signa too long before she realized her crassness.
“Oh, Blythe, I didn’t mean—” The apology was halfway out of her mouth when Blythe literally kicked her off the bed, grinding her heel into Signa’s thigh.
“Get out!” she spat. “You wicked girl, get out of my room!”
Signa scrambled from the bed, cursing herself for her insensitivity. “I’m sorry!” She reached to set a hand upon Blythe’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean—” Again her words cut off, but this time it was with an abrupt intake of breath. The moment she set her hand upon Blythe, all she could see was Blythe, and all she could feel… Well, she didn’t quite know how to describe it. It was unlike anything she’d ever experienced—an all-encompassing sort of feeling that tethered her there and made her breathing unsteady.
Whatever this feeling was, Blythe didn’t appear to be sharing it.
“Get out of here,” Blythe snarled. “You stupid girl, get out—” Her eyes went wide, and she doubled over without warning, chest rattling and body shaking as she was taken over by a violent fit of wet coughs. Blythe covered her mouth with the sheets, staining them a deep crimson. With each cough, the sheets grew darker.
The hairs along the back of Signa’s neck stood on end as a flood of coolness swept into the room. She knew full well what that coolness brought—who that coolness brought—and anger flared inside her.
“Oh no you don’t,” Signa growled in warning. Perhaps she’d been a fool to come. Perhaps the whole thing really was a ruse to damn her further. Regardless, Signa didn’t linger to confirm Death’s arrival. Instead, she turned on her heel and ran as fast as her legs would carry her—down the hall, down the stairs, and to the first servant she could find. Down to whoever might have a chance at saving Blythe and halting Death.
All she needed was to last six months. Six months, and yet she couldn’t last even a day without bringing Death into Thorn Grove.
EIGHT
FORTUNATELY, SIGNA FARROW KILLED NO ONE THAT NIGHT.
After hours of people floating in and out of Blythe’s room, things were beginning to settle. Signa watched through the crack in her bedroom door, surprised to find that her room was just down the hall from Blythe’s—either the spirits or her own paranoia must have been toying with her earlier to make her lose her way.
Now when Signa peered into the hall, only a handful of silhouettes lingered in the candlelight outside Blythe’s door. She squinted to see if Death was among them, relieved to find him absent. There was, however, someone else there that Signa was increasingly curious to meet—Elijah Hawthorne. His back was turned to Signa, but she could see more of him than she’d been able to earlier. He was exceedingly tall and alarmingly thin, with blond hair brighter than anyone’s. Brighter than even starlight, perhaps.
Signa drew a long step past her doorway to get a better look, and the moment her foot pressed down upon the floorboards, they creaked so loudly that Elijah and the servants fell silent and turned to find the source of the sound. Signa couldn’t move. Could hardly even breathe as their eyes snapped to her. All it took was four long steps from Elijah, and she could finally see his face clearly.
It was a stern face. A tired one that was without so much as a hint of the exuberance she’d witnessed earlier. It was hard to believe this was even the same man.
“Who is this?” His voice was hard as he spoke to the servants, just a hint of a slur lingering at its edges. Then he turned to Signa. “Who are you?”
It was Marjorie who responded, emerging from behind Mr. Hawthorne and taking a firm hold of his shoulder. “This is Signa Farrow, your new ward.” There was something familiar in the way Marjorie touched him. Something comfortable. Something, Signa noticed, that was entirely out of place between a governess and her employer.
“My ward?” Elijah braced his swaying body against a wall while Marjorie heaved a sigh. The look she cast Signa was purely apologetic.