“Yes, but I had to take another one to do it.” Even as Signa said the words aloud, she couldn’t get them to bite the way that she wanted them to. She’d meant to repair the Hawthornes, and yet she’d taken another child from Elijah. Even so, the guilt wouldn’t come. Percy’s death, as far as she was concerned, was just. And in exchange, Blythe would get to live a long, healthy life.
It was a life taken for a life gained, and without a body… Perhaps the Hawthornes need not ever know what had happened to Percy.
“I want to know why you did it,” Signa said suddenly. “Why use this form at all if not to fool me?”
Death looked like a sculpture, the dim light casting deep hollows into the contours of his cheeks as he flexed his jaw. “I know you’re no fool, Little Bird. I had no intention of mocking you, nor did I realize what I was getting myself into or the ruse I was creating until it was too late. For that, I apologize. But as for my reason, I admit that it was merely out of a selfish desire to discover who you were. It’s as I’ve told you already—I’ve spent the entirety of my existence waiting for you. Waiting for someone I can talk to. Someone I can feel. When I realized that was you… I needed to know who you were.
“Then you asked for my help,” he continued, “and I wanted to be there for you. But I knew that I could not help you in the form you were familiar with because you were afraid of me. You said once that you hated me, and so I remained as Sylas. Not just to get you to Thorn Grove but to spend time with you and help you, without the stigma. Without the fear. Had I approached you in my shadows, you never would have trusted my help.”
He was right, and although she was angry about the lie, part of her was relieved, too. Relieved that he’d stayed with her, no matter the form, because Blythe was still alive. And in the end, that was all that mattered.
He stood and took hold of her hand. “I won’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, as I was not born as you were, and have never been human. But I will be here with you every step of the way, assuming…”
“Assuming what?”
The stars were a canvas behind him, glowing as brightly as those silver eyes of his. Even the moon seemed to pull her closer to him as he asked, “Assuming you’ll have me?”
Death had told her once that people’s fates were predetermined, and she wondered if perhaps she was finally looking hers in the face. For so long she had resisted it. For so long she’d fought against this part of her—and oh, how exhausted she was. She was tired of the pretending. Tired of making herself someone she was not while running away from all that made her feel good and whole. Tired of questions and puzzles and guessing.
She just… wanted to be.
She knew who she was now, and she would no longer hide. She was a reaper, she was Death, and that darkness was her home. He was her home.
And so she curled her fingers around his. “Neither of us will ever be alone again.”
FORTY-SIX
IT WAS A SLOW PROCESS, GETTING BLYTHE TO HEAL.
It was a fate Signa wished upon no one. Blythe spent days of agony curled in her bed with thin breaths and swimming vision. Nights spent withering away, skin stretched over brittle bones, unable to keep anything down. Signa and Elijah took turns at her bedside, sometimes offering stories. Sometimes chatting on Blythe’s better days. And sometimes Signa would simply sit quietly, staring at the corner of the room while Blythe slept, trusting that they needed only to have patience.
Eventually, the improvement came. Her vomiting stopped within two weeks, and one late winter morning, Blythe managed to rise from the bed on her own so that she could watch the snowfall from her window. Like a newborn colt, she could hardly hold herself upright. But if there was one thing Signa had learned in her life of solitude, it was patience. And as she was waiting for her parents’ old home, Foxglove, to be readied for her arrival, she had nothing but time.
Blythe didn’t take well to needing assistance for the first several months, often insisting that Signa hurry up and leave now that she was twenty and had inherited her fortune. Insisting that she didn’t want the help, didn’t need it. But Signa had learned by then that Blythe was all talk, and because she’d spent too much of her life wishing someone would be there for her, Signa refused to leave Blythe’s side. It took many long days to slowly put meat on her bones and rebuild her strength, but by early spring Blythe was walking on her own two legs once more.
Elijah couldn’t have been happier for his daughter, whom he watched with a keen eye. The parties at Thorn Grove ceased entirely, replaced by time spent together in the garden. Never would Signa have guessed that father and daughter were so similar if she hadn’t seen the proof of it each morning at breakfast, both of them wearing slippers to the table and making grand declarations for why whichever flavor scone they were eating at the time was the best. One morning, Blythe had demanded that Warwick gather the cook, who laughed with rosy cheeks as she listened to Elijah and Blythe prattle on about how they simply must have lemon or rose or chocolate scones for their next tea.
So spirited were they now that it took Signa some getting used to. It was as though someone had taken a broom to Thorn Grove and was sweeping away the cobwebs and the darkness—pulling back the curtains and letting the light filter in.
There was not a day when they didn’t think of Lillian, just as there was not a day when Signa didn’t think of Percy and his fate. She kept the burden of that knowledge to herself, unwilling to shatter Blythe’s and Elijah’s hearts again when they were only just rebuilding. Both Percy and Lillian were gone from Thorn Grove and would never be back.
Life at Thorn Grove was changing for the better, but there was still one thing left that Signa had to take care of.
Marjorie had returned one afternoon. They’d searched for her to no avail, but at the news of her son’s disappearance, she’d come seeking answers. She and Elijah locked themselves away in his office, and though Signa had tried her best to eavesdrop, she was shooed away by Warwick. She waited impatiently after that, pacing the halls as Marjorie disappeared into her former bedroom. Signa lingered near it, bouncing on the balls of her feet until the door cracked open and Marjorie stood with a travel chest in her arms.
Marjorie took one look at her, and her lips tightened. “Hello, Miss Farrow.”
“Good morning, Miss Hargreaves.” Everything Signa had planned to say tumbled from her head all at once. She was left standing in an awkward silence, her hands clasped with worry in front of her. “I was hoping that I might have a word?”
Marjorie was no longer the prim-and-proper governess Signa once knew. She instead was a woman with dark circles beneath her eyes who likely would have given anything to escape this conversation. Signa didn’t blame her, but she was relieved when Marjorie sighed, set down her chest, and invited Signa inside. Her room was bare. She motioned for Signa to sit in a straight-backed chair with a yellow-floral stencil, then took a seat opposite her.
“I’m glad to see you’re safe,” said Signa, pulling the reluctant words from herself. “We looked for you for quite some time.”
“I’m aware.” Marjorie’s voice was cool, but Signa was relieved to find that it had no hardness. There wasn’t much affection, either, but Signa supposed she could live with that. “I came only to get news of Percy, and to gather my belongings. If you’ve got something to say, best do it quickly.”