Only the room wasn’t as empty as she’d first believed.
Signa startled at the sound of footsteps in the attached bedroom before remembering that she could not be seen. Gathering her shadows, she floated through the wall and found Marjorie inside. She sat upon the dusty bed, her breathing labored as she held a small black-and-white photograph. Signa stepped around Marjorie to peer over the woman’s shoulder.
The photo was of Percy with his mother and father. Given how young Percy looked, Signa guessed it was taken before Blythe had been born.
Signa didn’t expect the tears that welled in Marjorie’s eyes, nor did she know what to do when Marjorie ripped the photograph in half. She flung open the window nearby and sent scraps of the photo scattering into the snow as she held in her sobs.
Signa had half a mind to abandon her snooping and retrieve those scraps for Percy, knowing he’d never have a chance for another portrait like that one. But she fell still at the sight of Marjorie’s hands. Her fingers were bare, the tips stained a deep plum.
Signa looked down at her own hands.
The fingertips were the same: stained the color of belladonna.
Signa stumbled back against the bedpost. To her dismay, she did not fall through it but hit it hard, making the bed groan. Marjorie whirled around, and Signa used every ounce of her focus to control her ability to conceal herself in the shadows once more.
“Who’s there?” Marjorie’s eyes darted across the room, searching for a body she couldn’t find. Signa made herself small and prayed the belladonna would last long enough for her to leave unseen. She had readied herself to silently flee when Marjorie spoke.
“Is it you, Lillian?” There was a coldness to those words, more frigid than the presence of Death himself. Marjorie spun to search the room, her face glowing amber in the light of the single candle she held before her. “Am I so insignificant to you that a lifetime of torment was not enough? Do you need the afterlife as well? God, what I wouldn’t give for you to just leave!” Marjorie listened to the silence for a moment longer before she sank to her knees, setting the candle aside and cradling her head in her lap. “I’m sorry,” Marjorie whispered, voice like a prayer. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Slowly, puzzle pieces were snapping together. Marjorie’s infatuation with Elijah was no new thing. Elijah was the young man she’d spoken of, the one who had left her. She loved him, and she’d believed that he loved her back.
Perhaps she wanted that second chance. Perhaps she wanted a taste of the life she could have had if not for Lillian.
Signa’s chest burned with the pain of breath flowing back into her lungs. She curled a hand upon her throat, head heavy with questions she wanted answers to—but there was no time left to get them.
She didn’t dare risk being caught with the journal in hand. Signa pushed through the wall without sparing Marjorie another glance, feeling the weight of her body seize her once more. She barely managed to stumble into the hallway before the belladonna faded from her system; her heart restarted and sent the shadows slithering away from her. Skirts in her hands, Signa ran as quickly as she could along the hallway, past the framed portraits with eyes that followed her back to her room.
She slammed the door shut behind her and fell against it, breathless. There was no opportunity to rest, for Death waited before the window she’d forgotten to shut, in the form of his shadows once more. Yet he was not here to make good on what he’d promised her after their dance. The world around him grew tight in the anger she could feel rolling from him in waves, like he was siphoning oxygen from the air.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Signa asked. The question shattered like ice between them, and he turned away.
“It’s Blythe.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
BLYTHE WAS ON ALL FOURS ON HER BED, YELLOW BILE POURING FROM her mouth. She choked on it, struggling to find breaths between heaving.
Elijah held her by the shoulders. “Help her! Please!”
Signa curled her arms around herself; there was nothing she could do. They’d used the last of the Calabar bean to spare Percy. The familiar prickle of Death’s presence against Signa’s neck filled her with dread. He stood there in the corner, watching them, waiting. A reaper ready to strike.
It’s time, Signa.
She turned away, refusing to acknowledge him.
Blythe heaved again, vomiting on the corner of the bed. Elijah scooped his daughter’s hair up in tender hands.
The door flew open as Marjorie rushed in, her hands gloved and her breathing labored. She wasn’t two feet past the threshold when Signa blocked her.
“Not one step closer.” Signa tried to mimic the ferocity Blythe was so skilled at, yet she couldn’t keep her voice from trembling. “You need to stay away from her.” With Blythe dying and Percy following in her footsteps, there was no longer time to tiptoe around. Clutching Marjorie’s journal tight in one hand, Signa said, “Take off your gloves.”
Marjorie’s face was pale as the moon. “Where did you get that?” She reached to snatch the journal with shaky hands, but Signa pulled it out of reach.
Signa wasn’t sure how Marjorie administered the poison, but the woman had enough access to the household that the possibilities were infinite. Marjorie wanted a family. She wanted to be with Elijah. Perhaps that meant that any memory of Lillian had to go.
“There is poison upon her fingertips,” Signa said at last, wishing to tear the leather gloves from Marjorie’s hands.
Marjorie, who she’d spent so much time with. Whose company she enjoyed, and who’d tried to advise and guide her. Signa remembered how fondly Marjorie had looked upon the children. How tender her hand had been as she stroked Percy’s hair and set a damp cloth upon his forehead. There’d been such love in her touch, but Signa had read the journal for herself, and she’d seen the stain of belladonna with her own eyes.
“You think this is my doing?” Marjorie’s fists were clenched so tightly that they trembled at her sides.
“Look at her right hand,” Signa told Elijah. God, how foolish she was for not realizing what was going on ages ago. If only she’d checked the bedrooms sooner. “You’ll find it stained with belladonna. It’s what poisoned Blythe and what killed Lillian. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew who was behind it.”
Elijah was a shell of a man, hardly seeming to recognize the words as he watched his daughter with hollow eyes. Only the quiver of his bottom lip and the shaking of his hands gave away that he’d heard her, though there was no time for his attention to fray.
Blythe had nothing left in her to heave up. She convulsed, gulping desperate gasps of air.
In the corner, the reaper stepped forward.
Signa spun to him. “Don’t you dare.” She had never wished for anything more than she wished for Blythe’s safety in that moment. She wanted to tell Death he owed her for all the pain he’d forced her to endure. But that wasn’t quite right. Death owed nothing for his existence. And already Blythe had lived longer than she was meant to. Still, it wasn’t long enough.
“Give her one more chance,” Signa whispered instead, not caring who was watching or that they might think her mad. “I’m going to stop this. Give me one more chance.”