So thoroughly did these men fill her thoughts that Signa moved to the open window to cool the heat upon her skin. What was wrong with her? It was Lord Wakefield she should have been thinking about. For if a gentleman like him was to call upon her, Signa could guarantee her place in society, and a life full of good company and grand, joyous balls. Yes, that was what she should think about, indeed—security. Not late-night trysts with Sylas or midnight romps with Death. She needed to get a hold on herself.
Signa chose to focus instead on what she needed—to pry at the dam of the Hawthornes and see what information she might be able to break free from it. To learn something that could help save Blythe.
“It’s Percy that the ladies are truly after. He was helping me learn to dance today when your father walked in. Forgive me if this is not my place, but I’ve been here for a few weeks now, and it’s becoming increasingly clear that the two do not get along.”
Blythe curled her fingers in the sheets, and Signa held her breath, wondering if she’d already pushed too far. She remembered how it’d felt to have Eliza and Diana prying at her, scavenging for gossip they could take and spread to whoever might listen. Blythe would be a fool to believe that Signa—a girl she hardly knew—wouldn’t do the same. But Signa had no mind for gossip. She wanted only to save Blythe, and for the puzzle pieces in her head to begin their assembly.
Blythe, it seemed, recognized this. “For twenty years, my father and uncle raised Percy to take over the family business,” she began. “When my mother died, my father became a different person. He forbade Percy from ever working at Grey’s again. My father no longer spends his days there but instead holes up in his study, as though he’s trying to let the business rot. Should Grey’s burn down, I don’t think he’d so much as bat an eye. It’s more than our livelihood—it’s how our family maintains its status. And as for my brother, it’s always been his future.”
The bags under Blythe’s shut eyes were like two purple bruises as the conversation took its toll on her. She had to force the next words out, speaking softly. “My father won’t tell us why he’s taken the business away from Percy, but I think it’s clear that my mother’s death has rotted his mind. He’s no longer thinking logically.”
If Blythe was saying that her father didn’t take the business away until after Lillian’s death, that didn’t at all match up with what Signa had found in the letter at Grey’s. There was a piece to the puzzle that she was missing. She wanted to pry, but Blythe’s chest was rising and falling in a steady rhythm. The girl had dozed off, and Signa had no choice but to hold her questions. She adjusted the blankets around Blythe, protecting her cousin from the cold that bit the air and sank into her bones. A cold, she realized too late, that was entirely unnatural.
Signa spun around to see that Death was behind her, his shadows stretching to cover her mouth before she could make a noise. The touch stole her breath and stilled her heart, putting her into that strange zone between the land of the living and the dead. It lasted mere seconds before he pulled away, and her body ached as her heart started up once more.
Shhhh… he whispered inside her mind. You’ll wake her.
Signa wished to bite, to sink her fangs into Death and let the poison spread. But for the sake of letting Blythe rest, she jerked her hand toward Blythe’s sitting room and motioned for him to follow. Her footsteps were slow, careful to avoid any creaking planks. “Leave now,” she said the moment they were past the threshold. “God help you, I will not let you have her.”
Relax, Little Bird, Death said smoothly. I’m not here for her. Though I fear it won’t be long until I do come to claim that poor girl’s soul. I came to warn you. Should that girl not rid the poison from her body, I’ll be back for her before the week’s end. And her death won’t be a kind one.
Signa had half a mind to slam her fists into his chest and demand that Death leave Blythe alone forever. But Death didn’t lord over her or threaten her with the chill of his shadows. The air didn’t pull from her lungs with his nearness. It almost seemed like… like Death was trying to help her.
Signa stared deep into those fathomless shadows, leaning forward in an attempt to find a face. To find the eyes he must have had. But she saw nothing. “Why are you helping me?” she asked, hugging her arms tight around herself. “Isn’t this your job, to reap the dead from this earth?”
I understand I’ve not been kind to you. Death hesitated, shadows shifting around his feet. Because of me, your life has been harder than I ever meant for it to be. I didn’t think of your future, Signa. I did not think of anything beyond how you were being treated in the moment by those who were meant to take care of you. And for that I am… sorry. The last word sounded strange upon his tongue, as though he didn’t care for the taste of it.
I cannot spare her forever, but if we can help her, then she may not have to die so soon. There’s nothing I can do to prove myself to you. But if my word counts for anything, then you must trust me.
“We?” She’d never thought that this man—that Death incarnate—could ever seem so unsure.
“I’ll be searching, too, and I’ll let you know if I find anything to help her.” Death spoke aloud now, in a watery voice that sent shivers up Signa’s spine. She’d forgotten how much she liked that sound.
“Thorn Grove has a library,” she said suddenly, pulling her thoughts from the space they too often liked to venture when he was nearby. “Perhaps I can find something there about an antidote.”
He nodded. “See what you can find there tonight. And in the meantime, I’ll do some sleuthing of my own.”
“Thank you,” Signa whispered, shivering as his shadows fell still and the air around them plummeted at least twenty degrees. “For your help, and for telling me.”
“You’re welcome.” Again, the words sounded strange, like he struggled to even form them. “Our lessons will continue once you find something to expel that poison.”
She nodded as Death disappeared into the shadows that stretched to claim him. Only when she was certain that he was gone did Signa peer around the door back at Blythe, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. Then she clutched her own, her heartbeat like a caged beast. She checked her cheeks, too, placing a palm upon each of them only to discover that both were hot to the touch.
All this, over Death. Over someone she’d spent her life hating.
What in God’s name was wrong with her?
TWENTY-FOUR
THORN GROVE WAS WELL ASLEEP BY THE TIME SIGNA REALIZED SHE hadn’t the faintest idea where the library was.
She paced the floor of her sitting room, nightgown trailing behind her and curling at her ankles as she strode back and forth through the room. Consulting the library was the simplest way she could think of to find an antidote for Blythe, and while Signa preferred to conduct her search away from prying eyes, it wouldn’t do to be found roaming the halls after being caught by Elijah once already. She’d investigated the entirety of the second floor and most of the first by this point, which left only the third story.
Signa was formulating her plan—and an excuse, in the event she was caught—when she heard the glass doors leading to her balcony rattle. Though her chest went cold, she realized soon enough that a spirit would have no need to knock, and that Death lacked enough manners to even consider doing so. So when the sound came again several moments later and sounded like someone tapping against the glass, she figured it could be but one person.