Most days, Blythe found solace in the act of slipping into her favorite ball gown. Yet on the day of her wedding she couldn’t stop fidgeting, claustrophobic in the mountains of taffeta that’d been piled upon her. Her feet, too, were positively freezing, the morning dew sinking into the fabric and dampening the velvet soles. Had she not fought so hard to aggravate Aris, she would have long since changed into something warmer.
She reminded herself how sweet that small victory had tasted as the slippers squished beneath her toes and a perpetual chill settled into her bones. Yet all the while she kept a grin plastered to her lips as she stood beneath a wisteria awning, stuck beside Aris as they were forced to greet their guests. Surrounding her was a blur of faces she’d known all her life. Too many of them, in fact. This was no small ceremony, but a celebration worthy of a prince, where delicate chocolates and miniature cakes decorated with golden leaves were ceremoniously displayed on gilded trays and everyone’s wrists and throats glittered with their finest jewels.
Charlotte and Everett Wakefield greeted the newlyweds with smiles and words of encouragement. The duke and duchess leaned into each other, a sparkle in their eyes that had Blythe wondering what it must feel like to be so in love. She likely would never know.
There were faces in the crowd that Blythe didn’t recognize, too. Arrogant ones that waltzed about the reception as if in constant assessment. As Blythe scrutinized them more closely, however, she noticed their eyes were glassy and that they never uttered a word to anyone but one another. They must have been Aris’s guests, as it would have drawn attention if he didn’t have any in attendance.
The townsfolk never let these new guests stray far from sight. From the corner of her eye, Blythe watched as Diana Blackwater slid closer to one of Aris’s enchanted puppets—a man who could be no older than thirty, who claimed a pretentious air and was neatly styled in imported fabrics. Diana positioned herself in an effort to capture his attention, though the man could spare her no notice even if he wanted to as he looped slow circles around the garden, inspecting the decor. After several moments of following after him, Diana gave up with a hiss, fanning herself in a fluster. The moment she noticed Blythe watching, her spine stiffened. Ever so slowly—as if doing so physically pained her—Diana curtsied.
It was then, as satisfaction warmed her from head to foot, that Blythe realized how irredeemable her own soul truly was. That curtsy alone almost made her soggy slippers worth it.
Almost.
“Can you not simply magic this day to its end?” Blythe asked after she and Aris were congratulated by a woman who ran a modest apothecary shop in town. Blythe had never properly met her before, yet she smiled and accepted the woman’s profuse congratulations all the same. “Must we see this charade through in its entirety?”
“You’re the one who insisted on a proper wedding,” Aris reminded her. “I wouldn’t dream of taking such an experience away from a blushing bride.”
Blythe swallowed the foul words that threatened to sear holes in her tongue. It wasn’t worth getting into another bickering match with him. Especially not when her father stood in the near distance, observing the newlyweds with a cautious eye.
It wasn’t that Blythe had wanted a wedding, exactly. Rather, she’d hoped to delay her inevitable fate for as long as possible, and had wanted something that Elijah could bear witness to. She’d wanted her father to see that she was well and that he needn’t worry, which was why she now smiled so wide that her cheeks were beginning to ache. She even wound herself around Aris’s arm when she wished for nothing more than to recoil. His hand snaked around her waist, gripping so tight that pinpricks shot along her skin and all she could think was how she would have to burn this gown and scrub his touch from her body the second she had an opportunity.
It wasn’t until Signa approached that Aris eased his hold, his steely demeanor cracking. If Signa noticed—and Blythe assumed she would have, given that Signa tended to notice most things—she said nothing. Instead, Signa took Blythe’s hands in her own. “You are the finest bride I have ever seen,” she told her, and Blythe smiled despite knowing she was one of the only brides Signa had ever seen. Blythe couldn’t believe that only a few short months ago she’d been uncertain whether she’d ever speak to her cousin again, just as she couldn’t believe that she’d only known Signa for the span of a single year. After all they’d survived, it felt as though they’d shared a lifetime together.
Signa looked to Aris next, whose jaw ticked. Only Blythe could feel how greatly he deflated in Signa’s presence, and while she did not favor Aris, she did pity him. Aris believed Signa to be the reincarnation of the woman he’d spent centuries searching for; he believed her to be Life, the only person Aris had ever loved. And Signa would never be his.
“Miss Farrow,” Aris greeted coolly, though every part of him turned predatory as Death’s shadows loomed closer. “Brother.”
“A shame that my invitation was lost in the mail.” Death’s voice was the shock of an eclipse, or the danger of seawater filling one’s throat. It suffocated Blythe, so different from Fate’s rich exuberance that she at once felt ensnared in an icy current and at a loss for breath.
“Have you plans for the honeymoon?” Signa asked. Despite the fact that the honeymoon was meant to be a surprise to the bride, that hadn’t stopped half of everyone who’d greeted them from asking about it. Still, from Signa the question was odd, for surely she could not be hopeful about this sham of a marriage. She was the only one who knew just how preposterous it truly was, though Blythe suspected that Elijah was also leery. And yet the warmth in Signa’s eyes was so genuine that Blythe’s stomach curled. Leave it to the girl in love with Death to be optimistic about Blythe being bound to Fate.
Signa, in part, had always reminded Blythe of an owl. Her eyes were unnervingly large, and whenever she was lost in her thoughts she often forgot to blink. Blythe had long since made up a game in which she would count how long it took Signa to remember, and Blythe played it then as her cousin stared Fate down with a pinch between the brows. It had been thirty seconds so far, and still Signa had not blinked. It was no wonder so many people found the girl odd; it was a wonder, too, that she never complained of dry eyes. Signa only stirred when Death steadied a gloved hand on her shoulder, and Blythe wondered whether he, too, counted the seconds. Or perhaps the couple filled their evenings staring into each other’s eyes and seeing who could be the most unnerving and go the longest without blinking.
“Why do you want to know, Miss Farrow?” Aris asked, the timbre of his voice earning the reaper’s attention. “Would you like to join me, instead?”
Death, to his credit, did not take the bait. Though his eyes were dark, fathomless things, Blythe got the distinct impression that the reaper was watching her. Every inch of her skin crawled, and the hair upon the back of her neck stood alert. As Blythe soothed it back down, Signa chided, “This situation is only as bad as the two of you make it. If you’re stuck with each other from here on out, I’d hope that at the very least you stop trying to kill each other.”
Blythe bit back her scoff. How easy that was for Signa to say. She wasn’t the one who had to spend the rest of her living years with this beast.
“I can’t kill her,” Fate corrected in a flat monotone. “You saw to that when you made me vow not to hurt her. It’s no matter, though, as her pathetic human life will soon pass and one day I shall build my bed atop her bones and sleep soundly for the rest of eternity.”
As silly as the imagery was, it sparked a fire in Blythe’s chest. “Don’t sound so eager, husband. I plan to live at least a century more, if only to spite you.”
Signa pressed her lips together, and Blythe knew her cousin well enough to recognize there was something on her mind as she took hold of Blythe’s gloved hands. “Let me know the moment you’ve returned home,” Signa whispered, an urgency in her tone. “There’s something I really must tell you.”
Blythe wanted to tell her that whatever it was, it needn’t wait. And yet Signa was already being pushed forward by the never-ending line of guests eager to congratulate the new couple on a happy marriage. The next time Aris decided to throw a soiree, they would need to discuss the list of attendees beforehand.
Quickly, Blythe promised, “I will, of course,” before Signa and Death were swept away.
Blythe hadn’t the faintest awareness of how long she stood there, lips frozen into a false smile and her tongue thick from repeating her thanks. It was a relief when the line ended and she was finally able to get her hands on a glass of champagne.
She watched as the others drank, then waited for Aris to try a sip before she cautiously took the flute from his hand and drank that. She ignored his scowl and waited five minutes to ensure nothing happened before taking another sip.
Across from her, a striking woman with deeply suntanned skin and a pompous man of fair complexion greeted fawning guests. They wore outfits adorned with gold, and the woman’s hair was nearly a perfect match. They had the glassy eyes of the other marionettes, though these two at least spoke to those around them with pleasant smiles.
“Who are they?” Blythe asked, squinting at the golden haze around the couple to distinguish the thousands of threads woven around their bodies.
Aris polished off his champagne. “They believe themselves to be my parents,” he said, as simply as if he was telling her that the month was November.
It was not the response she’d anticipated, and Blythe cleared her throat before she could choke on her drink. “What do you mean they believe themselves?”
Aris’s eyes shone for the briefest moment as one of the staff passed by. Blythe watched as his threads ensnared the maid, altering her path so that he could pluck two more flutes from her serving tray. Blythe reached out, expecting that one of them was for her until Aris made fists around both stems. “Someone had to play the part. It wasn’t as though a prince would be allowed to marry without his own family in attendance. Besides, they’ll forget everything that’s happened once their purpose has been fulfilled.”
“It’s not fair to turn these people into your puppets, Aris. You shouldn’t twist someone’s mind just to fit your agenda.”
“Why not?” He twirled a finger lazily along the rim of the crystal flutes. “I’ve done it to you thrice.”
It was fortunate that she’d not yet eaten, for Blythe’s stomach flipped. Vaguely, she remembered one of the times, back when Aris had tried to extract information about Signa and why she’d been banished to Foxglove. Blythe had a feeling that the second time had to do with the gap in her memory from her first night meeting Aris and visiting Wisteria Gardens. But as for the third…she hadn’t the faintest clue, which was all the more terrifying.
Trying to fight back the shakiness from her voice, Blythe told him, “You will never again use such powers on me.” She wasn’t sure what leverage she had or what she could offer to make such an agreement worth his while. Regardless, she spoke the words plainly, and with every ounce of fire that raged within her.
“Dear God, do you always screech when you talk?” He rubbed at his temples with a groan. “Your cousin already saw to it that I can bring you no harm.” Though Blythe had guessed something of the sort based on their earlier conversation with Signa, she was surprised by how easily Aris admitted to it. For someone as dangerous and as aggravating as he was, the man was certainly forthcoming.
Still, Blythe pressed, “Even if it’s not to hurt me, you must promise that you’ll never make me into one of your puppets. I will not live in a home with someone who manipulates me.”
She tipped her chin, defiant despite having no leg to stand on in this argument. Still, to her surprise, Aris did not taunt her. He only drank deeply from his champagne and said, “That was never my intention.”
The squeeze of her chest loosened. “I’m relieved to see that you can be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” So bleak was his laugh that Blythe was immediately on edge. “It’s not worth the effort to manipulate you when I have no desire to even look at you for any longer than necessary. Though I do advise that you get comfortable with my powers, love. If you insist on keeping up our guise, know that there is a cost.”
Blythe set down her flute with such force that she had to double-check she hadn’t shattered the glass. “If you hadn’t pretended to be a prince in the first place, there would be no guise to keep up with.”
Aris shrugged. “Perhaps. But with a face like mine, what other role do you expect I might play?”
She couldn’t tell whether he was joking, but Blythe laughed at the ridiculousness all the same. She was about to inform Aris just how much of a fool he was when Blythe caught sight of her father. Though he’d been in conversation with Signa, it seemed that Blythe’s laughter had drawn his attention. Her spine snapped straight as Elijah descended on them. Quickly, she leaned toward her husband and commanded, “Pretend that I am the most brilliant person on this earth, or I will make every second of your life absolute misery.”
“Do you mean to say that you’re not already doing that?” Aris scrunched away from her, though there was no time for him to ask questions before Elijah stood across from them. Aris straightened. Powerful though he was, it seemed even a deity could become nervous in the presence of a father-in-law.
“Mr. Hawthorne,” Aris acknowledged with a dip of his blond head.
“Your Highness.” There was an iciness to Elijah as he greeted the prince, though it melted as his attention turned toward his daughter and he held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
There was no universe in which Blythe would ever refuse. Letting her hold on Aris slip, she took her father’s hand and wordlessly allowed him to lead her to the dance floor. Given Elijah’s lack of concealment over his distaste of society, Blythe had nearly forgotten just how refined her father could be, his chin high and his shoulders confident as he swept her into a waltz, each of his steps utterly precise. Even more surprising, however, were his words.
“I put a knife in your travel chest.” Elijah spoke easily, and Blythe was grateful for the swell of the music that swept his voice away from the other dancers. She gaped up at him, though there wasn’t so much as a furrow between Elijah’s brows.
“An unusual gift for a new bride,” Blythe admonished. “Do remember that I chose this, Father. Aris isn’t forcing me into anything—”
“Oh, come off it.” Though his words were blunt, they were not unkind. “I was set to hang. I have been in this world long enough to know not to look for coincidence where none can be found. You may bat your eyes at that man all you’d like, but do not take me for a fool.”
Blythe ground her teeth, knowing there was no choice but to choose her next words carefully. “Marriages of convenience happen every year.”
“They do,” he agreed, cutting cleaving glances in Aris’s direction. “But that was never meant to happen for my daughter. I would sooner have died a thousand deaths than have put that on you.”
“You’ve put nothing on me,” she whispered, breathing a little easier now that some truth of her and Aris’s arrangement was out in the open. “Perhaps you were ready to die, but should we have a million more lifetimes, I still would not be ready to let you go.” Blythe had lost too many people she loved in the past two years, and she’d be damned to let anything happen to her father. Something in her expression must have made him understand as much, for his hold on her softened.
“Very well,” Elijah whispered. “But know that you are my world, Blythe. You are my proudest accomplishment, my heart and my soul. Should anything happen to you—”
“It won’t,” she promised. “It’s marriage, Father, not murder.” Though she tried to say it jokingly, Elijah’s eyes held storm clouds.
“I put a knife in your travel chest,” he repeated, and it was an effort for Blythe to not roll her eyes. As perceptive as her father was, there was no way for him to ever know that a mere knife would never be enough to kill Aris. Still, if it made him feel better, she’d accept it.
“I’m glad you told me before I accidentally stabbed myself,” she said. “I’ll accept it, though I’ll have no need to use it.”
Elijah continued without pause. “I want you to write to me every week, at least for the first few months. End every letter with a random fact so I know it was written by your hand. And should something ever happen—should you need me, or if you’re hurt—mention your mother by name and I’ll know to come at once.”
“It’s not as if I’m going far,” Blythe said. “Wisteria Gardens is but a carriage ride away.”
“No doubt Aris will want to return to Verena,” Elijah challenged, and Blythe wished with everything in her that she could tell her father such a place was not even real. She’d tried to look for it on a map once, just to see, though every time she searched her vision would swim and her mind would grow hazy until she eventually forgot what she’d been searching for. Aris was nothing if not thorough.
“We’ll remain here in town once we return from our honeymoon.” Neither she nor Aris had actually spoken of their plans. In fact, they’d hardly spoken at all since the day she spilled her blood onto his tapestry. She hadn’t given thought to where they might live, for the answer seemed obvious—there was no Verena. Surely, they would remain at Wisteria Gardens. And yet her father’s eyelids drooped, and while he made no further argument, he seemed saddened by Blythe’s confidence.
“A letter,” he repeated, holding her tighter as the music quieted, the song coming to its end. “Every week, no matter where you are in this world. Promise me that.”
It seemed there would be no getting around it. “If I cannot take a carriage ride here myself, then fine, I will send you a letter. And you will send me one as well, so that I know neither you nor Thorn Grove has crumbled without me holding everything together.” She punctuated her jesting with a smile, though it wavered at the corners. Most young girls assumed they would one day leave their home to start a new phase of life, but Blythe had never seen the appeal. She loved Thorn Grove, just as she loved her family. The idea of leaving them behind—especially when her father had overcome so much these past years—was something Blythe never thought she’d have to face.
Blythe held tighter as the waltz came to an end. It was Elijah who slowly released hold of his daughter, though he waited a beat too long to do so.
“It is my hope that I’m only becoming more paranoid in my old age,” he told her softly. “It is also my hope that Aris is a good husband, and that you will one day share the kind of love that your mother and I once had. But if not—if anything should ever happen—there’s always the knife.”
Even Elijah cracked a smile when Blythe laughed, though it was short-lived as guests began to file toward the courtyard where four gray horses waited with an ivory carriage.
Gently, Elijah squeezed her hand. “Do not make yourself small. Do not change yourself to suit him. Teach him how to treat you, and remember that you deserve everything this life has to offer.”
Heat prickled Blythe’s eyes, and she looked away before her father could see the tears fall. She turned her face ahead, to where Aris waited, and nodded. “I will.”
Before she could change her mind, Blythe released her hold on her father and stepped toward Aris and into her new life, feeling her heart shatter with every step. ...
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