“We haven’t been found yet.” Sylas grinned as he took a seat upon the edge of her bed. Signa’s stomach warmed at the sight of him there. She tucked her hair behind her ear, suddenly aware of the smell of sickness upon her, and of how in need of a bath she was.
“I want to thank you for your help,” she began, skin sweltering despite the cold. “I know I’ll be paying you, but even so it means the world. It’s a precarious situation, and my cousin can use whatever help she can get.” When she sat upon her chaise for fear that sitting too close to him might inspire certain… ideas, Sylas stood and moved to the chair before her.
“I’ve pulled the logs of all those employed at Thorn Grove, as well as any who were let go within the past year.” Sylas motioned to a thick stack of papers that he’d already placed upon her writing desk. “I was unable to find anything in the ones I looked through, but perhaps your luck will be better. Take care not to have them found. I imagine it’d be difficult to try and explain how you acquired them.”
Signa nodded, and though she was eager to get started on poring over them, it was a task that would have to wait until after a night’s rest. Should she try to read them now, she doubted she’d be able to see straight. She wanted only a bath and to change out of her heavy attire prior to Death’s midnight arrival. But before that, while Sylas was present, there was something she’d been wondering about ever since Percy’s accusation.
“Why is it that you agreed to help me, anyway?” The words came out in a flurry, and Signa wasn’t certain why her heart was pattering so hard beneath his observation. “Even with the money, do you not worry for your reputation? Nothing good would come of you being discovered.”
It didn’t take so much as a moment of consideration before he answered. “Speaking frankly, Miss Farrow, there’s not much left of my reputation to maintain.” He watched her eyes as they fell to his boots, wondering at the polished leather of such fine quality. He shifted his feet to one side, as though doing so might retire the boots from her inspection.
“I am not a selfless man,” he admitted. “I would not put myself in this position unless there was something more concrete for me to gain. Just know that, by helping you, I will obtain the resources I require to help someone that I care for very deeply.”
Signa wished she had water to quench the sudden parchedness of her mouth. There was such fervency to the way Sylas spoke; such a raw passion that Signa immediately stewed with jealousy for whoever could command such affection. She gave her cheek a quick pat, trying to will some of the heat from her skin. It wouldn’t do to allow herself to be so taken with Sylas when there was another who held his affection already. She couldn’t help that she found him handsome, or that she enjoyed his company. They’d simply have to be friends, then. Friends, and nothing more.
Besides, Sylas wasn’t the only one who Signa too often found her thoughts wandering off to. There was another man she was anxious to see again, though it wasn’t thoughts of friendship she had in mind.
“Whatever your reason, I appreciate it all the same, Mr. Thorly.”
Sylas looked as though he were glowing from within at the praise. “Just Sylas is fine,” he said. “And of course, there’s no thanks necessary. I’ll keep an ear to the ground and will be in contact should I hear anything informative.”
There was more she wanted to ask, and more details she wanted to compel him to share. But with midnight a mere hour away, there wasn’t time. She stood, and Sylas mirrored her example, taking the hint that this meeting was over.
“Have a wonderful night, Sylas.” She folded her hands in her lap, wondering if she should try to look more affronted that he’d sneaked in through the window, and less like his doing so thrilled her.
Sylas made his way toward the window and hauled himself onto the willow tree as respectfully as one could do such a thing. When he was secure he turned back to her, moonlight glinting in his eyes. “Have a good evening, Miss Farrow. I’ll be in touch soon.”
TWENTY-NINE
WHEN MIDNIGHT STRUCK LATER THAT NIGHT, SIGNA WAS READY.
She paced the length of the sitting room as she waited for the darkness to pull inward as Death filled her room, bringing with him the chill of late autumn. Signa was glad for the slippers she wore and the robe she’d pulled over her thin chemise. The warning of the approaching winter hung in the air, it’s chill bitter and biting across her skin.
“You did well. I’m glad you found a way to help Blythe.” Death took in the dark tresses that Signa had brushed and the cheeks that she’d pinched life into. She’d spent the past hour since Sylas had left letting her mind whirl as she readied herself, thinking through everything she wanted to ask him. Everything she wanted to discuss.
“Only because you warned me.” Signa wrung her hands. “Though the solution is temporary. Tell me… are you certain you haven’t any clue who could be behind Lillian’s murder?”
Death took a seat on the arm of the chaise. “This is no elaborate scheme. It’s as I’ve told you before—I’m limited in what I can see. When I touch someone, I claim their life. With that touch, I can see snippets of their living years, but I’m no psychic, nor am I all-knowing.”
Signa sighed. While she’d expected as much, it would have been so much easier if he knew something.
“And what of your powers, Signa?” He rose from the chaise and prowled toward her. Every step he took caused a flurry in her chest, a cold burn creeping into her lungs. “There’s something I’ve been curious about for a while. When you touched Magda, did you see anything?”
She’d buried the memory of that night deep, preferring never to think of what she’d done. But she did consider the question, and she shook her head. Death might have been able to see the lives of those he claimed, but Signa hadn’t seen a thing when she’d touched Magda.
Death made a low hum under his breath. “While you do have my powers,” he said, “it would seem that you’re not able to use them to the same extent. At least not yet.”
“What do you mean, ‘not yet’?” Signa remained still as he drew a step closer to her.
The shadows swayed on the walls around him, a back-and-forth dance that lulled her into a sense of comfort. “It’s merely a thought, though I wonder if you might be able to access your abilities better, Little Bird, if you were dead.”
Finally, she had the sense to take a step back. “But I cannot die. I don’t want to die.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You have a very long and full life ahead of you, rest assured. It’s only a theory, but I do believe that when your life is over—and it will be eventually, Signa—these powers will be awaiting you.”
Signa wrapped her arms around herself. “You think I’m like you.” Her words were little more than a puff of air, fast and disbelieving. “You think I’m… What? Death?”
Death’s shadows shifted, making him a touch smaller and less intimidating. “A reaper,” he clarified in perhaps the softest voice she’d ever heard. A lake beneath the stars, still and quiet. “Yes.”