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.”
In that moment it was just her, the reaper, and a room cold as frost. The temperature stole movement from her limbs and she dropped to her knees.
Death is not something to be controlled. You need to learn this, Signa. You need to understand.
“I know you can do it.” She was pleading, and she didn’t care. “We saved her once, and we can do it again. Just one more time, please.”
Is there someone else who deserves death more?
The words were a test. If she wanted to spare a life, she needed to take one in exchange. Perhaps it would be a random one. Perhaps it would be one of her own choosing. Whoever it was, Signa would not allow Blythe to die that night. Rising back to her feet, she pushed through the searing cold and the shadows that urged her back—and put herself between Death and her cousin.
Don’t be a fool. You’re cruel to make her hold on like this. There was truth in what he said. Blythe was a walking corpse, ghostly skin clenching desperately to protruding bones. She couldn’t so much as tilt her face to look at Signa, her body too exhausted to continue this fight.
“It’s okay” was all Blythe whispered, over and over again, the softest, tiredest refrain. “It’s okay. It’s okay if I go.”
Sweat slicked across her neck and down her back, her clothing damp and sticking to her skin. It didn’t have to be like this. Now that they knew Marjorie was the poisoner, Blythe could finally heal.
It would take only two words. One single command, and Blythe would have another chance.
“Do it.” Signa’s words were firm, meant not for her cousin but for the reaper who looked on. “She’s not dying today.”
Do you understand what this means? There was no judgment in his tone, only dedication to ensuring that she understood the gravity of her decision. You are toying with Fate, Signa. You’re playing God.
“I don’t care,” she said, and she meant it. “Do whatever you must, but if you care for me at all, then help her.”
He cast one long look at Blythe, the shadows around him thinning as he bowed his head.
At once, Blythe’s breathing began to steady.
The reaper disappeared, and in his wake, he left a sleeping girl, a baffled man, a red-faced woman, and a girl who had just damned another soul without a moment’s hesitation. One who stood before all of them, power thrumming through her blood.
Signa could get drunk off that power. Could drown herself in it, it felt so good.
“Are you a witch, girl?” Marjorie asked, voice shattering like a fallen teacup. “What have you done?”
Signa needn’t say a word. Elijah was beside her, his eyes wild and face purple as he shook with anger. “Show me your hands.” It was he who must have taught Blythe how to wield her words, for had the estate been smaller, his voice alone would have brought it to shambles.
Marjorie drew a step back. “Elijah, I’d never—”
“Take off your gloves and show me your hands!” He crossed the floor, each step more murderous than the last, barely restraining his rage. Marjorie drew several tentative steps back, and Signa quickly flattened herself against the wall as he took hold of her wrist and yanked off the glove. He took one look at her fingers and dropped her hand, disgust and pain written clear across his face.
“You’ve never cared for Blythe.” His words dripped with venom as he leaned into her, so close his chest pressed against hers. “You never cared for her, just as you never cared for Lillian. She was a good woman, Marjorie. And these children are innocent. How dare you lay a hand on them? On Percy?”
The noise that came from the back of Marjorie’s throat was a strange one, something between a gasp and a snort. “The fact that you think I did anything to them is ridiculous and you know it. I’d never lay a hand on them!”
His jaw clenched, and he pointed to the door. “I want you to leave.”
Marjorie gripped the door’s frame as if to stake her claim upon the room. “You can’t do that.”
“I can do whatever I please.” The flickering of the oil lamp shadowed Elijah’s face, hollowing his cheeks. “I don’t want to see your face near Thorn Grove. Leave now, or I’ll call for the constable.”
Marjorie’s chest caved in as though the wind had been knocked from her, and she scowled at Elijah as if he were the devil himself. “You’re making a mistake.” Marjorie spun to Signa, whose blood turned cold. “And you. You’ve no idea what you’re doing, child. You know nothing at all.”
A young woman followed by Death didn’t easily feel fear. But in that moment, the feeling sank deep into Signa’s core, forcing goose bumps like a rash across her skin.
Fortunately, Marjorie was gone the next time she blinked.
The moment the door shut behind her, Elijah’s knees buckled. The sound that tore through him was warped and broken. It was enough to shatter Signa’s heart and make her hands ache to reach out to him, to tell him that all would be okay. Blythe had survived the latest attack of this poison, and soon it would be out of her system. But this level of heartbreak was something she’d never experienced, and something that could never be put into words. The man before her had shattered, and there was no picking up the pieces.