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.”

Signa drew in a deep breath to gather her words. “I owe you an apology. I wanted to keep Blythe safe, but I didn’t have the evidence I needed before accusing you. I’m sorry.”

Marjorie accepted her apology with a nod, though nothing about her expression softened. “It’s quite all right. I admire your affection for the Hawthornes, and we both know it was not a baseless accusation.”

Signa chewed on her bottom lip. Marjorie was right—though the woman was innocent, there’d been the belladonna stain upon her fingertips.

“I found the berries right before you accused me,” Marjorie said.

Signa sensed that the final puzzle piece dangled before her. She hadn’t told anyone the truth about Percy. Instead, she told anyone who asked that she’d never found him in the garden that night, and never saw who set the garden on fire. She said Percy had fled, fearful that someone was trying to kill him and spurred on by his anger at his father’s plan to sell Grey’s. With the help of Death spending his nights at Thorn Grove, subliminally whispering the story into every sleeping ear, all in the manor came to terms with the new reality. A large portion of the staff had been culled in the hope that the reduction would remove whoever was poisoning the food, and although Signa did feel guilty about the departures, Death was keeping his eye on the staff to ensure that all landed at suitable positions.

When Blythe began to heal, Signa let Elijah believe that he’d gotten rid of the perpetrator once and for all. He’d alerted the authorities, who’d begun an investigation, but without any proof or confessions, the case had been slowly fizzling. Though he was dissatisfied with having no definite conclusion, Elijah made it clear that he cared more about spending time with Blythe than pressing the issue.

“So you knew the belladonna berries belonged to Percy?” Signa asked Marjorie, having no desire to dance around the question.

Marjorie’s red hair was tied back at the nape of her neck, and freckles dusted the skin beneath her tired eyes. She looked so much like her son in that moment that Signa’s stomach twisted.

“I never said where I found them.”

“You didn’t have to.” Signa turned away, unable to stare at their resemblance for a moment longer. “I know it was him. I’m the only one who does, and I have every intention of keeping it that way. The Hawthornes don’t need another heartbreak.”

Marjorie’s relief came in the form of a swallow and a quick exhale of breath. “Please understand that I didn’t have even a moment to gather my thoughts or decide what the best course of action was when I realized what was happening. I wanted to speak with him. To spare him if I could. He’s my son, and I needed time to think.”

“Time was a luxury that Blythe didn’t have.” Signa wrung her skirts in her hands. “I was wrong, but when you hesitated, I took action. And that action is what saved Blythe’s life. I’m sorry for accusing you—I truly am. But please understand that I also thought I was doing the best thing I could with the options that were before me.”

A vein in Marjorie’s forehead pulsed as she smoothed out her dress. “Elijah tells me that Percy has gone.” There was more she wanted to say, the hint of a question lingering at the edges. “Will my son ever be back, Miss Farrow?”

Signa had been confident when she decided to claim Percy’s years for Blythe, and she was confident now as she lifted her chin and looked Marjorie in the eye. “He will never again return to Thorn Grove. Of that I’m certain.”

Marjorie didn’t wait a breath before she stood, eyes damp and resolute. “Then it’s time for me to go. I’ve a train to catch, into the country. It’s time I begin a new life, away from this place.”

Signa vowed then to forever keep the truth of Percy’s feelings toward Marjorie to herself. It was better to lie, wasn’t it? To let Marjorie believe that he loved her. That he hadn’t wanted her dead. “Then I wish you well,” Signa said with a small dip of her head. “I hope you land somewhere magnificent.”

Marjorie nodded, and with a bow of her own, she disappeared into the hall and out the doors of Thorn Grove.

Signa gave the empty room one last look before she stepped into the hall and shut the door behind her. With the last piece of the puzzle set into place, it truly was time for her to move on.

You did well.

A familiar chill trickled up her arms and down her back as Death appeared behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. She leaned into his touch, lulled by the comfort of it. “You were watching?”

“Not to spy,” he answered aloud, bending so that his words brushed against her ear. His grip on her tightened, lips peppering small kisses along her neck. Signa wondered vaguely what she might look like to anyone who happened down the hall, but she couldn’t make herself care. It was Death who pulled away with a throaty chuckle. “How about we move this to your room?”

“Is that why you came here?” she teased him, taking hold of his hand. She didn’t need to be asked twice. All week she’d left her window open as she tossed under her sheets, waiting for him to join her. And each night he’d ignored the invitation.

She led Death to her room as the shadows dropped around him, and he was but a young man with silver hair and galaxies in his eyes. He sighed his content as Signa kissed up his neck, along his jawline… He pulled away before she could reach his lips.

Signa drew back. “Do you not want to? I can stop, if—”

“Signa Farrow, the last thing I want is to stop. But there’s something we need to discuss.” He took a seat on the edge of her bed and whispered, as though tender words might somehow make them better, “It’s going to be harder for us to see each other from now on.”

She sat beside him and folded her legs beneath her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that Blythe is healing,” he said. “You’ve solved the murder, and Thorn Grove is well. You can only see me when the veil between our worlds has been lifted and death waits nearby.”

“But I have the belladonna berries,” Signa argued. “I can see you whenever I want.”

He lifted one hand from her lap and cupped it in both of his own. “Sometimes maybe. But I will not be another cage in which you spend your life, Little Bird. I do not want you to rely on such things just to see me.”

“But I want to see you.” The dread in her stomach sank lower. “What is it you’re suggesting?”

Her worry was so palpable that he scooted closer and nudged his shoulder against hers. “One day we will be together without barriers,” Death promised. “And we will still see each other until then—our paths will cross, as they always have. But I want you to live. I do not want you to grow to regret your days in this world, but to look fondly upon them.”

She had only just settled into this life—into the knowledge that her destiny was different than what she’d spent so much time trying to make it. She’d only just embraced the darkest parts of herself, embraced him, and now he was—what? Trying to warn her away from him? “If that’s what you want for me, then you will not leave me again,” she said sternly.

“It’s not by choice.” He squeezed her hand tight. “I won’t be able to see you every day, and I want to be realistic about that. I’ll not have you eating those berries just so we can have five minutes together.” Signa tore her hand from his, wanting nothing more than to curse at him. But she bit that swelling emotion down, for there would be time for it later.

“I have already chosen you.” There was steel in her voice. “Don’t you dare try to be diplomatic now. This is a big world, and I’m certain that there will be ways for us to find each other.”

“There will be,” he agreed. “But when everyone you know is gone, I will still be here, Signa. This is not easy for me, either; I’ve wanted nothing more than to be with you. For you to want me. But I don’t want you so focused on the world of the dead that you forget to enjoy that of the living. Do you understand?”

She did, perfectly well. But Signa had no intention of giving up another person she’d grown to love. “I will live my life,” she told him, “and I will find you in those stolen moments. My decisions are mine to make, and what I’m deciding is that we’ll figure it out. We will try. And in the meantime, I’d like to make use of the time we have left.”

Death swallowed as Signa shifted upon the bed. It was fortunate she was still in a tea dress—one without a corset, which she could easily undo herself. Her eyes flicked to his with a silent question, and Death responded by twisting to pull her onto him so that she straddled his lap. “Are you certain?” he asked. “Even knowing that it may be some time before we see each other again?”

“You are the one thing I am certain of.” She brought his hands up to the laces of her gown, guiding his fingers between them. “We’ll find a way.” Only when his fingers slid through the silk laces, undoing them, did she shut her eyes and let the gown glide off her, trying to memorize the feeling of those fingers against her skin, trailing from her neck to her hips. The feeling, a moment later, of his chest pressed against hers. His thumb as it traced gentle circles against her inner thigh.

No matter how long it took, she would wait for him, and whenever she doubted, or whenever she missed him, she would remember this moment when he laid her down upon the sheets, and how the night itself had consumed her.