THE GARDEN WAS NOT SO DEAD AS SIGNA HAD EXPECTED.

The first thing she heard upon entering was the quiet rushing of water, joined by a choir of croaking frogs. The soil was rich and ripe for autumn, bearing an abundance of wolfsbane, fragrant orange and red chrysanthemums, pansies with a deep purple that bled into their yellow petals, blooming witch hazel, and dozens of striking plants she’d never before seen. Across from them were rows of browning, unharvested herbs and, farther back, bushes of nightshade. Though untended, the garden didn’t feel unkept like Aunt Magda’s. Aglow in the setting sun, this garden felt alive and wild with magic.

Signa tried to imagine what it might look like during a warm summer day, the way Lillian would have enjoyed it with birds singing and the soft buzz of insects as she lay out in the grass, sunbathing. Or perhaps having a picnic.

Lillian, Lillian, Lillian. The name buzzed through the air as if the garden were paving the way to her, ushering Signa forward.

“Was it a peaceful death?” It was similar to the question Signa had asked Sylas. This time, however, she went right to the source.

Death lingered beside her, and tension prickled the air. “Despite what you seem to think of me, I’m no monster. Though pain cannot always be avoided, I try to make death

peaceful when I can. I cannot take everyone at their happiest state, but I do try.”

To her surprise, she found that she believed him. “Then what about Lillian?”

“I don’t remember every life, Little Bird, for there are far too many, and I cannot tell you much. What I do know is that this was her favorite place in the world, and that she’s buried in the back, near the pond. Shall I take you to her?”

Signa shivered. “Please do.”

Death led Signa through the garden as though he’d traveled there a hundred times before. As she followed, she wondered how long Lillian had been sick. How many times had she been so close to Death’s door that he’d sat in this garden with her, waiting to see if she’d finally call to him?

Though green with algae, the pond buzzed with life. It was a gentle place, with fallen maple leaves and lilies sprouting outside the bank. Tiny brown frogs burrowed themselves in the damp soil or hid between the pebbles lining it. In the water were tiny minnows, and facing the pond were two oak benches, both overtaken by damp moss. Behind the benches, tucked toward the back, was the grave littered with a decayed bouquet and more moss.

“Be careful when you speak with Lillian.” Death’s voice had lost all hint of amusement. “It takes spirits a great deal of energy, so they won’t often communicate with the living. If a spirit is angry enough, though, it might try to possess you.”

Never before had Signa even known that was possible. Then again, she’d never met such a malevolent spirit as Lillian. She had to gather herself, taking a few heartbeats before she closed the space between herself and the grave. On her way to it, she plucked one of the lilies from its stem and gingerly placed it next to the withered bouquet.

“You told me to come,” Signa whispered, patting a hand to the soil. “Here I am, Lillian. Come and tell me what you want.”

Her heart seized as the cold flooded her skin like a thousand needles stabbing into her. Bile burned her throat.

When she looked up, Lillian was floating over the water’s edge.

No longer was her mouth a gaping black hole; her lips were full now, and shaped like a heart. It was covered in blisters and sores, and Signa was certain the woman’s tongue would still be a pulpy mass of rotted flesh should she attempt to speak, but ultimately, she looked more human.

Assuming humans could glow bluish-white and hover above the ground.

Death stepped forward, offering the spirit his hand, but she drew away from his touch as though it were poison, resisting his call. His offer of an afterlife.

“You can’t just take her?” Signa asked, and Death stiffened, as though the suggestion alone was disgraceful.

“I won’t do such a thing against her will. She’ll come when she’s ready.” He bowed his head, and with that retreated into his shadows.

When it was just the two of them, Lillian’s lips curled into a thin smile. But her lips were too cracked and raw to handle the movement, and one of the sores opened, oozing a trail of black blood down her chin. If the spirit noticed, she didn’t care.

Signa was glad that none of the Hawthornes were able to see Lillian like this. Everything about her was a reminder that the dead did not belong in the world of the living. Lillian would terrify even those who loved her most.

“Lillian,” Signa whispered. If the spirit wasn’t able to use words, they’d need to keep this simple. “Do you realize that you’re dead?”

From her experience, many spirits never acknowledged that fact and went on acting as though they were still alive. Yet to her surprise, Lillian nodded.

Good. This was a good start. “The doctors said it was an

illness. Were you sick for long?”

The spirit’s face contorted, a dark shift in her demeanor. She floated to her grave and stooped to the ivy coating the ground, taking a piece of it in both hands. Glancing up at Signa beneath iridescent lashes, Lillian didn’t so much as blink as she tore it to shreds, until the muscles of Signa’s throat tightened.

“Death,” Signa called, though she never took her eyes away from Lillian. “Do you know how Lillian died? Did you see the illness?”

He took shape, leaning against a tree, and responded with a tone that betrayed nothing. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything more than she does.”

Some help he was. She groaned, trying to soothe her racing heart as Lillian kept tearing at the ivy, then jerked to a sudden halt at the sight of a pebble near her grave. Lillian grabbed for it, and with trembling hands carved a single word into the dirt, the script so messy it was barely legible: kill.

So reassuring was the word that it took every ounce of determination Signa had to keep herself grounded even when her mind urged her to run. “Did you… kill someone?” she asked, to which Lillian scowled. The spirit pointed to the sores on her lips, then to herself, and Signa gasped when the realization struck.

If Lillian was saying what Signa thought she was… the situation was going to change too much and be far more complicated than Signa wanted anything to do with. Part of her ached to turn and escape now, before they went any further. Before she learned a secret she didn’t care to learn.

But Signa couldn’t draw away. Couldn’t get her feet to move even if she wanted them to. So rather than flee, she forced herself to ask, “Lillian, are you trying to tell me that you were killed?”

Tossing the pebble, Lillian spun to Signa with a fervent

nod. At once, Signa began to piece it together. The sudden death, the failed doctor visits, the angry spirit, and now…

“Blythe. It’s happening again, isn’t it? Whatever— whoever—killed you is back for your daughter. Is that right?”

Lillian blinked away, then reappeared beside a small bush of berries on the opposite side of the garden.

Signa sprinted toward her and opened her fist, where she still held a small handful of the berries, now half mushed into her palms. She stretched them out toward Lillian, whose eyes went black as Signa asked, “Poison? You think you were poisoned?”

Lillian’s spirit rocked with a violent twitch. Quelling her trembling, Signa dared to add, “Was it by someone at Thorn Grove?”

Another violent shudder. The sores on Lillian’s lips festered, turning from purple to a vicious black before they tore open with blood that ran from her lips, down her chin, and soiled the top of her gown. Her body spasmed, head bobbing in a furious and terrifying nod. “Who?” Signa demanded as Lillian’s eyes brightened, glowing. “Was it one of the cooks? A maid? The tutor? Was it someone you trusted?”

“Enough!” Death was there beside Signa, his shadows consuming her, drawing her back. “Do not press the dead, Signa. She doesn’t know.”

His warning came too late. The spirit’s neck bent and snapped as she jerked it from one direction to the next, shaking, nodding, twisting. Blood poured from Lillian’s mouth, and the moonlight caught the pulp of her shredded tongue as she threw her head back and screamed a sound so shrill and grating it brought Signa to her knees. The wind whipped the water from the pond and tossed the croaking frogs into the trees, marring the clean branches with their blood.

Death was before her, his shadows like armor blocking

her from the carnage.

“What’s happening?” Signa gritted out, hands clamped tight over her ringing ears as she tried to see around him.

“You pushed too far.” The darkness expanded around them, creating a barrier. “Wayward spirits aren’t meant to recall their final moments. You never know how they might react.”

Signa leaned around the shadows to watch as Lillian reached down the back of her own throat and grabbed the awful heap that was her tongue. She clawed her grimy, soil- stained nails into it, ripping off pieces of flesh. She tossed the bloodied heaps to the ground and then went for another, as if trying to remove her own tongue in its entirety.

But then the wind stilled, and Lillian’s neck twisted back to its rightful place. Her eyes snapped to Signa, to the shredded bits of her tongue that were already fading. To the bloodstained trees where several frogs lay impaled.

She looked to Death then, and tears flooded into her eyes, black and bloody.

And then Lillian was gone, and the static in the air followed.

Death retracted his shadows from around her as Signa clawed toward the nearest tree and threw up. There was an iciness in her body she couldn’t quell, and her hands shook even as she pressed them against the trunk to steady herself. Outside the garden, Mitra whinnied at the sound of another pair of hooves in the distance.

“It’s time to go” was all Death said as he took hold of her shoulder, pulling Signa to her feet and back through the garden.

“Do you know who did it?” The words tumbled from her, a little slurred.

“If I did, I would tell you. I’m not all-knowing, Signa. When I touch a person, I see glimpses of the life they’ve lived. But I know only what they know, and while Lillian

suspects foul play, she doesn’t know who’s behind it.” Gundry pawed outside the gate. He ceased his sniffing at once and looked up, tongue lolling out when he saw Signa stumble through the gate. He looked at Death, too, and his tail began to wag.

“He can see you?” After all she’d seen that day, she wasn’t sure why it was so surprising. She’d seen spirits interacting with animals before, but Death had always felt like a step beyond that. Like someone who shouldn’t even be real.

“All animals can see me,” Death said, patting the hound on the head. She almost thought she could see a hint of a smile peeking out from his shadows, but when Signa blinked again, he was gone.

There was so much. So much she didn’t know. So much happening that she could barely process.

She had Death’s powers.

Lillian had been murdered.

And now, to save Blythe, it was up to Signa to discover who had done it.