His response came after a long moment. I would have taken her tonight had you not helped her. I fear our time to find the murderer is dwindling. She may be safe for now, but who is to say how long that will last?
It was shame Signa felt, then. Shame for not finding the killer, yet. Shame for continuing on with lessons and musings over men, all while Blythe was deathly ill.
As if sensing that within her, Death said, You are not responsible for her life. Nor will you be responsible when the time comes—and it will one day come—for me to take her. You must not allow yourself to be consumed so thoroughly by death. It’s not selfish to live.
She curled her toes in the sheets, combing fingers through her wet hair. How deep a nerve he’d struck, though it was one thing to be told that and another to believe it. You were right to tell me that this would be easier if I’d rely on my abilities more, she told him. I think… I need you. I need your help. But I’m afraid. It was easier to admit it from the safety of her bed, when he was not standing there before her. Even so, her cheeks heated all the same.
The silence between them grew, so loud it was grating. It will come easier with practice, he said at last, and I will do everything in my power to help. I’ve taught you this much, haven’t I? You have the power of the world within you, Signa Farrow. You need only to embrace it.
The unspoken truth hung heavy between them—she would be doing more than embracing her powers. She would be embracing him.
Her throat was too tight. She thought of their night together. Of how close she’d been to a decision there was no going back from. They’d stopped just in time, and that was a good thing.… Wasn’t it? Because of course she shouldn’t want that—shouldn’t want him. And yet…
Stop worrying about society and playing its game, hoping that you’ll be good enough, Death urged her. There is no such thing as true goodness, there is only perception. So why not try my way of living? I think it would suit you just fine.
It wasn’t long ago that she’d held a knife in her hands and tried to plunge it through him. She’d wanted for so long to be rid of Death, but she was no longer so sure of that as she’d once been. Even the sound of his voice in her head warmed her. She felt endless curiosity about him. She wanted to pry him apart. To know his deepest depths, his likes, his wants. No matter how much she learned, she doubted she’d ever be satisfied.
The more she thought about him, the harder her toes curled into the bedsheets. But the chill of the wind was fierce, and it reminded Signa of what it’d felt like to be in his arms. There was infinite power in those arms, and an infinite power that came from being held within them. Never had she felt such stirrings within herself, such atrocities that Aunt Magda would have had her burned alive for.
Because she was having thoughts about Death. About her and Death. And they weren’t the sort of thoughts that belonged in polite society.
I would come to you. His voice dropped lower, almost tender. Should you call me, I will come. There was something pressing about the way he said it—something fervent and searching.
Signa clutched a pillow tight to her chest.
She could do it. All it would take was a single word, and he’d be there before her.
But then what? Would she let him cure the ache of her lips? Tend to the heat of her belly? Would they continue where they’d left off the night before?
“Good” girls didn’t want the things Signa was considering. For so long she’d had her plans, her hopes, and now he was throwing a wrench into all of them. She let loose of the pillow. It took everything in her not to summon him to her room. Not to speak the words that threatened her tongue. Instead, she curled into the sheets and shut her eyes, willing away the desire.
She had no doubt she’d dream of him. And for once, she was looking forward to it. I’ll remember that, she told him, and left it at that.
He took it as a promise, his voice a rasp that made Signa believe he was having the same thoughts that she was. It was a sound she wouldn’t soon stop thinking about. Good night, Little Bird. You’ve done well.
She wasn’t certain he’d left her when Signa trailed a finger down her nightgown and smoothed her thumb over her inner thigh, imagining that the touch was his. She welcomed the night’s chill into her bones, tilted her head back, absorbing it into her as though it was his embrace.
It would be another night, Signa was certain, when she wouldn’t be getting much sleep at all.
THIRTY-TWO
IT’D BEEN YEARS SINCE SIGNA HAD A REASON TO CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS.
The last time she’d celebrated was when her grandmother had been alive; they’d eaten mince pies and pudding every night of December and had decorated a tree with candles, fruits, and ribbons. The memories had faded some, but she remembered powdery snow outside the window and a fire burning in the hearth. She remembered the smell of pastries and gingerbread and oranges, and she recalled her grandmother reading her stories.
She held on to those memories when her grandmother had passed, nostalgic for the company and the warmth of stories and sweets. Her uncle had decorated their home, but Signa hadn’t been allowed near the tree for fear she might somehow ruin it, and he’d spent his December nights with brandy and a lover, leaving Signa alone in her bedroom. None of her other guardians had done much to celebrate Christmas, perhaps cooking a turkey or setting up a tree, but there was never any warmth to it like there’d been with her grandmother.
After several years, Signa had stopped yearning for the past. But once December rolled around at Thorn Grove, that nostalgia emerged with a vengeance. She sat at the top of the stairs, watching as the maids hung wreaths and garlands, decorating the manor for a ball that would not be held for another few weeks.
She lingered by the kitchen, where Percy worked off his boredom by raiding the pantries and pestering the cooks for sweets he shared with her and Blythe, insisting they’d put meat on his sister’s bones. And then she’d watch, through frosted windows, for the first snowfall. When it came, she went directly to Blythe’s room, helped bundle her up, and then led her and Percy downstairs for hot chocolate before they journeyed outside.
“I don’t see why you’re so excited,” Percy said to Signa. He tried not to let his teeth chatter in the cold. He was becoming too used to the heat of the kitchen, and he was so fair skinned and prone to flushing that the tip of his nose and ears had turned red within minutes of being outside. “Why could we not drink this by a fire?”
Nestled in a wool gown and thick cape, its green velvet hood pulled up around her head, Blythe laughed. The sound reminded Signa of the toll of church bells: warm and safe and beautiful. Even Percy quieted upon hearing it, for her laughter was so rare these days. He watched with a hard expression as Blythe sipped from her hot chocolate, as though he worried she might disappear at any moment.
“A bit cold, Percy?” Signa teased, laughing, too, as he tucked his gloved hands under his arms to conserve warmth.
“We shan’t count on him for making snowmen or snow angels,” Blythe mused, leaning back on her hands to watch the snow falling upon the lawn before them. “My brother’s never been fond of the snow.”
“It’s beastly weather, and wool itches like mad,” he grumbled. “I’d much prefer to be seaside during the summer.”