So genuine was Everett’s smile that Signa’s stomach twisted with guilt. Yet she knew there was no time for that, for there were matters far more pressing. With a final goodbye, she turned and hauled Percy to the carriage that waited to take them home to Blythe.
TWENTY-SEVEN
PERCY DREW THE CURTAINS SHUT THE MOMENT THEY WERE IN THE carriage, exhaling as he sank low into the seat. “I can’t believe we were almost seen in that apothecary.” His lips pinched tight, he appeared so much sterner than he’d been minutes prior. The severity of the quick change in his demeanor gave Signa whiplash. “Especially in front of the duke’s son.”
Signa wished the carriage would go faster. “Does it truly matter if they saw us?” she asked. “I’d expect anyone with half a heart might understand our desperation and be open to considering alternative remedies for Blythe.”
“I’d hope that, too,” he said. “But it may also make them suspicious.”
Her defenses were rising. “What do you mean, suspicious?”
“I mean that the longer I think about it, the stranger I find the convenience of you just happening to know what’s ailing my sister, let alone finding an alleged antidote.” His green eyes narrowed. “I want to trust you, cousin, but I must admit that I find your sudden interest in Blythe quite odd. She’s been worse ever since you arrived, and I’m finding it difficult to deny that you might be the reason.”
It was dread that Signa felt then. Cold, icy dread leaking into her stomach. The look in Percy’s eyes wasn’t one she’d seen before; it was distant, venomous. But she understood it, for Blythe was his sister, and Signa had no doubt that she’d be willing to do whatever it took to protect her own sister, too, had she had one.
But she didn’t know how to convince him of that. The Calabar bean itself was, technically, poison. It would do her no favors if he found out. “I’ll sample the antidote myself, should you need proof,” she said at last. “Would that satisfy your concerns?”
Percy stilled at Signa’s declaration, leaning back against the leather seat as he considered her. When he’d gathered his wits enough to consider her proposal, he nodded—for as far as he knew, there was perhaps no better proof in this world. “Very well.”
“Then consider it done.” Signa set her hands upon her lap and counted the passing minutes. She didn’t want to care about his hesitancy; Thorn Grove, odd as it was, was the best place she’d ever lived, and its people were growing on her. She also didn’t want him to see how much his negativity about the apothecary had affected her, for Percy was the symbol of high society through and through. His reaction, as well as her own discomfort at tea, was a clear acknowledgment of how poorly Signa fit into that milieu.
She could become like clay and mold herself. She could wear the gowns and pin up her hair and pat rouge upon her cheeks—she could even feign interests if she had to. From the time she was a young girl, this had always been the road she’d been meant to take. Her grandmother had told her as much. Had told her to marry, and of the parties she’d attend. Had told her she’d be like her mother, and Signa had believed her because it was all she ever knew to want. But there was something else now. A curiosity. A darkness that had been brewing within her all these years that was perhaps not so dark as she’d once believed. She’d felt power. She’d felt the heat of her skin beneath a man’s touch. She’d felt what it was like to sneak out and ride horseback beneath the moon.
And she liked that darkness more than she cared to admit.
She stewed in the silence of her thoughts for the entirety of the ride, then while in the kitchen as she ground up the Calabar bean, and then on her journey up the stairs, through the hall, and into Blythe’s room with Percy at her side.
The moment the door opened, it felt as though someone punched her square in the chest. Death hung like smog in the air, suffocating.
The sole relief was that he was not yet present. He didn’t stalk the shadows, waiting for her, and Signa understood that the feeling of his lingering presence in this room was a warning. If she was to save Blythe, she needed to move fast. Percy must have felt the urgency, too, for he barely glanced at his sister before his steps faltered.
Blythe was flat on the bed, as lifeless as Signa had ever seen her. Her breath slipped from her lips in tiny gasps. When Blythe heard them enter, her eyelids fluttered open, though she was unable to keep them that way for long.
Signa took a seat beside her without waiting for permission. She picked up a glass of water from the bedside table and stirred in the ground Calabar bean until the liquid turned a milky white.
Before she could make another move, Percy got hold of her arm. There was fire in his eyes. “You first,” he said.
Her stare locked with his, Signa lifted the glass to her lips and took a swallow.
It wouldn’t be long until her stomach protested the drink, so she steeled herself and didn’t waste another moment on Percy.
She slipped her arm under Blythe’s neck to help her sit up. Only when the drink was to her lips did Signa hesitate. Blythe was as weightless as a feather, her head lolling against Signa’s arm. Whether she would be able to handle the substance was a mystery. The life was draining from her fast, and the Calabar bean was another poison; it would make her throw up, though it was also meant to counter the effects of belladonna.
“This will be hard,” Signa warned her, “but you must fight. If you feel yourself about to vomit, let it happen. It will help.”
Blythe said nothing, but the fluttering of her eyelids led Signa to believe that she understood.
Percy stood beside them, eyes anxious. “Will she be all right?”
Signa could have killed him for that question, and she flashed a look that warned as much. Blythe was sick, but she could still hear them. “This should help her tremendously,” Signa said without adding: Should her system tolerate it.
She goaded Blythe into drinking half the glass, then took a basin from the floor for when the moment arrived that they’d need it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, sitting close, smoothing the damp, stringy strands of Blythe’s pale blond hair off her forehead. “I must have missed something. I thought only the medicine was poisoned, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Or perhaps one of us slipped up and gave away too much information to the wrong person.” A hint of accusation lingered in Percy’s whisper.
Signa had told someone, admittedly far more easily than she should have. But Sylas had helped her; he’d shown her the library and taken her to Grey’s. If he wanted Blythe dead, surely he wouldn’t have been so helpful. “No one slipped up.” She spoke with confidence. “I must have made a miscalculation. We’ll have to monitor what she consumes more carefully.”
“And what of your remedy?” He nodded to the remnants of the milky-white drink. “Will you have enough, should this happen again?”
Signa nodded. “For one more dose, yes. Though let us hope she won’t need it.”
“Let’s pray that you’re right.” Percy’s brows were severe as he watched Signa work with the caraway, preparing it for after Blythe lost her guts, which didn’t take long.