“Is she going to come in,” Blythe asked, “or will she continue to stand there and let in the draft?”
Percy leaned toward his sister conspiratorially, though his words were loud enough for Signa to hear. “Careful, Bee. You must remember to speak quietly when there are skittish fawns about. We wouldn’t want to spook them.”
Squaring her shoulders, Signa walked into the room with her chin held high. “I am no fawn.”
The girl turned to her with a smile that nearly snipped Signa’s breath straight from her lungs. The feeling was similar to what Signa had felt the first time she’d seen Blythe—like she and Blythe were linked by an unbreakable string. This must have been the connection that Death said happened when she’d unknowingly spared Blythe’s life.
She barely knew this sickly thing who struggled to leave her bed, yet whose gaze could impale a person. All the same, Signa felt compelled toward her. She didn’t know what it meant, or why she had these abilities. But what she did know was that she’d do everything in her power to save Blythe’s life, and that started with figuring out the source of the poison.
“I want to apologize for the other night. It was… rude of me to say what I did. I’ve never been eloquent.” Signa balanced herself atop the far corner of the bed, opposite Percy. She was ready to spring back up and flee at any moment.
The ice in Blythe’s eyes melted as she licked the remaining sugar from her fingertips. “You ought to work on that.” Her tongue was the faintest shade of pink. Almost white.
Goose bumps crawled across Signa’s arms like spiders, and her stomach dropped before she noticed that the chill in the room was from an open window, and not because Death was lingering nearby. His absence might have given Signa hope, had she not known that Blythe was on borrowed time with a murderer still on the hunt.
“I won’t thank you for saving me the other day, given that it was your fault I had an accident in the first place.” Blythe’s words were as cutting as Signa remembered them, each one its own knife. “But I won’t refuse your company, either, for I’ve never had a cousin before. Will you be with us long?”
It was Percy who answered. “Father had the modiste prepare her a wardrobe for the season.”
Blythe’s face darkened. “I suppose I should be glad someone is getting his attention. Though if you are in need of gowns, you could have taken mine. I’ve no use for them anymore, and too many will go unworn.”
“Blythe—”
“Oh hush, Percy. I don’t mean it like that. They no longer fit me, and I doubt my body will ever be back to what it once was.” With each word, the bite in her voice lessened. “Now tell me about work. Are there any updates?”
His grip on Blythe’s hand tightened, and Signa got the impression that there was something more to this back-and-forth language of siblings that went beyond her understanding. “Uncle is on his way here right now to talk sense into the man, but I fear Father believes himself beyond reproach.”
Blythe clucked her disapproval. “Surely, he’ll bend one of these days. You must keep trying.”
“He’s not bent since the day you took ill, Blythe—”
“And when was that, exactly?” Signa hurried to ask, trying not to shrink under the weight of the eyes that turned toward her in surprise. “I ask merely out of curiosity. When did you fall ill?”
Blythe feigned a gasp. “I’m ill? Heavens, I’m surprised you noticed. No one dares to speak of it before me.” She made a quiet, amused hum in the back of her throat before leaning her head upon the pillows. “About a month after my mother died.”
Whoever was behind it, they’d wasted no time. Signa peered at a small pile of chocolates on Blythe’s bedside table, next to a cup of tea. She crossed to that table and took one of the chocolates, trying to be discreet as she bit into it. Signa couldn’t say whether she was relieved or disappointed to discover that it wasn’t anything but normal chocolate, but she did take another bite. Her eyes fell to the tea next, and Signa reached for it before she could feign an excuse.
Blythe shot up, positively lethal. “Don’t you dare! That’s my medicine.”
When Blythe stretched her hand out to take the dainty porcelain cup, Signa backed out of her reach and took a tentative sip. That was when she tasted it—barely more than a hint of the bitter berry, not enough to be noticeable to anyone who didn’t have a tongue familiar with the taste.
This was it. This was how someone was keeping Blythe ill.
The cup was still nearly full, the liquid cold. “How long have you been taking this medicine?”
“Since the day I took ill,” Blythe answered, glaring. “It hurts my stomach if I drink it too quickly. Put it down.”
She didn’t. Instead, Signa walked to the window and dumped the tea out.
“Are you mad?” Percy ripped the porcelain cup from Signa’s hand. “For all we know, that could very well be what’s keeping my sister alive!”
“On the contrary, it could very well be what’s keeping her sick.” Signa didn’t want to let on that she knew what was happening, lest the killer find out and try other tactics. “Who gave this to you?”
Blythe’s lips curled down and deep lines furrowed in her forehead. “My maid brings it every morning.”
“And what’s her name?”
“Elaine. Though I don’t see why—”
Signa recognized the name at once as the servant who had been helping her dress. “Who prescribed this for you?”
“One of her doctors.” Percy folded his arms across his chest. “And dare I say one more competent than you.”
Even Signa knew that no doctor would prescribe belladonna in anything. Someone was sneaking it in—perhaps not in every cup but in many.
“I know this might sound strange,” she began tentatively, “but, Blythe, I don’t believe that you’re suffering from any disease.”
Percy took Signa’s wrist in his grasp, gripping so hard that she flinched, certain she would bruise. “Do not fill my sister’s head with nonsense. It’s the same illness that took our mother—”
Signa tore her arm away and looked him hard in the eye. “This isn’t medicine. I know because I’ve tasted it before. It’s belladonna, from the berries that grow in the woods near here. Someone is poisoning her.”
Blythe didn’t move for a long moment, her mouth half open. “Percy,” she began, and her brother only shook his head.
“One of the doctors would have realized it by now if it was poison.” He was adamant in this belief, each word stressed. “Signa is merely guessing.”
“I’m not guessing anything,” she said with every bit of conviction she could summon. “I recognize the taste. And if you don’t believe me, see for yourself. Blythe, the next time your medicine is brought to you, don’t drink it. But don’t refuse it, either, for you might alert someone of your suspicions. Wait until no one is around, and then find a safe place to dispose of it. Percy, you should be careful, too. Who’s to say you’re not next?”
His skepticism remained, evident in the creases between his brows.