Chapter no 16

Belladonna (Belladonna, 1)

THE PAST WEEKS HAD KEPT BLYTHE IN ISOLATION, HER ONLY

VISITORS Elijah and the doctor who cared for her. Every day, Signa tried to slip unnoticed into her cousin’s room to check on her, only to be met with a locked door, pulled away by lessons, or scrutinized by Elijah’s watchful eye when he spent his evenings by Blythe’s bedside, ensuring nothing happened to her while she slept.

This particular morning, her plans were thwarted when Marjorie burst into her suite dragging an armful of gowns— tea dresses and traveling dresses meant for daytime use and others with extra ruﬄes and richer fabrics made for parties. They were far better than the yellow day dress she’d been forced to wear so often, though she couldn’t help but feel a knot of sadness at their dull, muted hues.

“You’ll want to ready yourself quickly.” Marjorie handed Signa a soft periwinkle tea dress. “You have company arriving soon.”

This roused Signa at once—how could she have company when she knew no one?

“I’ve arranged a tea for you, with young ladies your own age,” Marjorie said. “I thought you might like to have friends here after being forced to leave your other ones in such a rush. All of these girls are friendly with Blythe and come from aﬄuent families. All are unmarried and are perfectly suitable company.”

Signa had no doubts that they were, but still she asked, “And they have to visit now?”

Marjorie’s face was stern. “What do you mean now? I was under the impression that this was what you wanted.”

“It is!” Signa said hastily. Of course it was what she wanted—company and a foothold in high society was all she’d ever wanted—though she would have preferred it any other day. “I only meant that I’d hoped to see Blythe today.” This seemed to appease Marjorie, whose smile was sympathetic. “I see. Unfortunately, the doctor is with Miss Hawthorne. You’re welcome to visit her later this

afternoon, after your lessons.”

Signa wanted to demand that she be allowed to pay her cousin a quick visit, though when Elaine arrived to help Signa hurry and dress, she realized any such effort was futile. Blythe would have to wait a little longer.

The dress slipped over her skin like silk, made from imported fabrics with little expense spared. It was color coordinated to compliment the parlor in which they’d be having tea, and laced in the back, leaving Signa room to grow into it with a more sufficient diet. For now it was a touch loose, which made it one of the more comfortable things she’d ever worn, given that one was not expected to wear a corset beneath a tea gown.

By the time Signa finished getting ready, she certainly looked respectable, but she was contemplating every which way she might possibly sneak A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette into tea with her. It sat upon her writing desk, and she trailed a delicate finger down its immaculate spine. Would her mother be proud to see her like this? Would she have dressed Signa similarly? Pinned her dark tresses the same way Marjorie did, to show off her delicate face and slender neck?

“They’ll be here by now,” Marjorie chided. “Come along.” Signa withdrew her hand from the book. She knew its contents by heart, had studied its pages front to back more

times than she could count. Now was the time for execution.

She followed Marjorie down the stairs, walking between fretting maids who dodged her in their hurry, setting up Thorn Grove for another party. Her heart pattered with every step. She wouldn’t allow herself to slip up like she had with Blythe—wouldn’t forget her tongue for even a moment.

Three young women waited for her in the parlor, seated at a circular table that seemed absurdly small and intimate. Marjorie introduced them as Lady Diana Blackwater, a rather plain girl with fair skin, mousy hair, and beady rat- like eyes; Lady Eliza Wakefield, with a long alabaster face and blond ringlets, and…

Signa didn’t trust her own legs to hold her up when she saw the hazel eyes that stared back at her. Charlotte Killinger wore a blue-and-white-striped day dress, her shoulders back and her neck long and delicate. Her old friend was even more beautiful than Signa remembered— her rich umber skin warm and glowing, cheeks warmed with the tiniest hint of rouge. She was taller and less baby cheeked, but still every bit the girl that Signa had once known. The friend she still thought of to this day, but one whom she’d not spoken to since the scandal between Signa’s uncle and Charlotte’s mother all those years ago.

Charlotte’s mouth hung ajar, her eyes wide as a doe’s before she bowed her head in a gracious nod. “It was kind of you to invite us.”

“It certainly was! We’ve all been so curious about the Hawthornes’ new ward,” Diana chimed in after a cursory dip of her head. Her voice was strident, but Signa paid it little mind for her heart was busy beating a mile a minute. For so long she’d wished to see Charlotte again. But why did it have to be now of all times? Now, when she’d finally let herself believe that she could start fresh and where the rumors of the past would not haunt her every move.

Signa stumbled, legs numb, as Marjorie gave her a gentle nudge toward her chair. One of the servants poured steaming tea into their cups while another set out teacakes and pastries. While Charlotte thanked them, the other two girls ignored the help. Their fascination rested solely with Signa, and their eyes glinted with it the moment Marjorie was out the door.

Eliza smiled at her from across the table. “Well, aren’t you a tiny thing.” Whether it was a compliment or an insult was impossible to tell. Eliza leaned forward, her long curls brushing the tablecloth. “How are you enjoying your time with the Hawthornes? They truly are the most interesting family.”

“Interesting?” Signa echoed, her throat so painfully dry. “How so?”

“The parties, for one.” Eliza laughed, as though the question was ridiculous. “Not to mention the wealth, the rumors, the mystery. I suppose you wouldn’t know considering you’ve only just arrived, but the family you’re staying with is the talk of the town.”

Signa dared to look sideways at Charlotte, who sat erect in her chair, wordlessly sipping her tea. She hadn’t said one word and busied herself by staring up at a landscape of a beautiful spring garden.

A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette was very clear about gossip: Do not speak idly. Signa agreed, not caring to gossip about those who had shown her such grace. But Eliza’s eyes were lit with mirth and her tongue was ready to seep poison, and so to get the information she sought, Signa took the bait. She reached for a blueberry scone and leaned forward with a quiet intake of breath.

“Rumors?” she asked in a tone that conveyed she’d never once imagined such a heinous thing to be possible. “Surely, you’re mistaken? What sort of rumors are they?”

“All sorts,” Diana chimed in. “That ghosts haunt Thorn Grove. That perhaps Missus Hawthorne—poor thing—took

it upon herself to end her life after discovering her husband had had a series of torrid affairs and too many illegitimate children to care for. They even say the help is in cahoots to rally against the family.”

The allegations seemed to be all hearsay, though Signa tucked the information away as more puzzle pieces to be sifted through at another time. “The Hawthornes are curious people,” Signa said, choosing her words with care; she had no assurance that whatever she said wouldn’t leave this table or that she wouldn’t be branded a gossip. “But they’re also very generous to welcome me into their home when they’ve suffered such a great loss.”

Diana made a noise in the back of her throat. “I’m sure your fortune helped with that.” She leaned back in her seat and examined her frilly white gloves. “My father says Mr. Hawthorne’s business is failing and that you’re to inherit a fortune grander than even theirs.”

Signa wasn’t shy about the butter she spread upon her scone, heartbeat so fierce that even her neck was beginning to perspire. When she’d imagined this conversation, it’d been much more informative and relaxed. Charlotte peered up then. “She only just arrived, Diana,”

she said in a smooth voice between sips of tea. “I doubt she knows much about the Hawthornes at all.”

Eliza’s lips tightened, and Signa took hold of another scone. She figured if she didn’t know what to say, then—so long as her mouth was full—she could bide her time and let the others speak.

But that was before a flood of cold air washed into the room.

“Is there a window open?” Eliza shivered. “I wouldn’t have thought I’d require a coat at tea.”

Signa knew too well what that draft meant and choked mid-bite. She tried to be discreet as she turned her head around to see Death was there beside her, sitting in a chair of shadows next to Diana. He folded one shadowy leg over

the other, and in his hand, more shadows had formed an imaginary cup of tea, which he raised to her in greeting. Apologies, I forgot to bring my dress and gloves.

The words were not spoken aloud but seemed to reverberate in her head.

He was in her head.

She clenched her skirts and paced her breaths. No. No no no no. None of this was going according to plan.

First Charlotte, and now… no. Signa had eaten no belladonna; she’d not journeyed to the place between the living and the dead to access him. All her life, she’d been able to see Death only when there was reason for it—when someone near her was dying. She’d sooner try to kill Death again than let him take one of these girls, and she tried to convey every bit of that in the glare she shot at him. He seemed to enjoy it, a low laugh rattling in her head and filling her chest.

Relax, Little Bird. I only came for some rousing gossip.

Diana took a delicate bite of scone, unaware of the monster pretending to sip steaming shadow tea beside her. One touch, just a graze of his shadows, and these girls would be dead. Signa’s throat was too tight to swallow the hunk of scone that had lodged in her throat. She choked on it, grabbing for her tea and sucking down half the cup in one go.

Although Charlotte made a point of not staring, Diana laughed. “Good God, don’t tell me you’re not fed here? You eat as though you’ve not seen food all week. And those collarbones of yours… So very sharp.”

Signa’s shoulders wilted. She knew better, certainly. Knew to take her time, to take small bites, to pretend she didn’t find the food delicious and that she felt no desperate call to devour it all, and instead pretend she was delicate and barely knew the meaning of food.

Beside her, Death set down his tea. How do you feel about this woman? I could infect her with a light plague,

perhaps. Or we could give her the pox? Blemished skin may do her vanity some good.

Recognizing the levity in his voice, she fixed him with a brief, angry look, to which he sighed. Fine, ruin my fun.

Between Charlotte sitting on one side of her and Death on the other, it was a fruitless endeavor to attempt to focus. Diana and Eliza dominated the conversation, and when they noticed Signa had gone some time without even a murmured response to any gossip, Eliza turned her flat brown eyes to her to pry: “Have you a suitor already, Miss Farrow?”

Death stood and loomed over Eliza, so close that Signa’s throat grew tight. Don’t mind me, he said. Go ahead and answer. Is there someone you’ve got your eye on, Little Bird?

Her fists clenched. She wanted with everything in her to demand that he leave, but she had no way to convey that with the others scrutinizing her. Noticing her struggle, Death said, You should be able to respond to me, you know. If you hear me, I’d wager you can respond.

She tried, eager to tell him to leave her alone long enough for her to glean information about the Hawthornes, or at the very least to find a way to speak to Charlotte in private. Yet as hard as she strained to send those words to him, he didn’t react as though he could hear her.

“Do you intend to make your debut here, Miss Farrow?” Charlotte asked, a wary edge to her voice.

Signa held her porcelain teacup in both hands as she stared at her friend. Despite the nerves, despite what Charlotte knew and could do to undermine her… she was still relieved that Charlotte was present. That she’d finally found her old friend again and could see firsthand that she was safe and healthy and beautiful. “I’m hoping to join this season, yes,” Signa told her, liking the way the announcement felt when she spoke it aloud.

Eliza clapped her hands. “Oh, you must have a party to

celebrate! Invite us, and we’ll ensure you know everything about every man in town—” She clutched her throat, losing her breath for a moment when Death stepped around her.

Will I be invited to your party? I do love a good dance.

He would be invited to nothing, and though Signa wished she could tell him as much, she kept her smile and asked Eliza, “What men are thought to be joining this season?”

The commotion at the table was immediate. Eliza leaned in, brandishing her fork as she spoke. “I believe you’ll want to keep your eye on my cousin Lord Everett Wakefield.”

Charlotte perked up at the name, her eyes brightening. “He’s arrived?” she asked, to which Eliza nodded.

“Just three days ago. He’ll be joining us through the summer to see if he might find a suitable wife. I do wonder, too, who your cousin Percy might seek out, Miss Farrow. He’s set to inherit the family business, and its fortune, you know.”

Eliza was correct, assuming Elijah didn’t ruin his prospects. Signa thought back to two nights prior, when she’d watched Elijah shove a cake into his son’s mouth. She couldn’t imagine Percy’s embarrassment, couldn’t imagine how it must feel to have a father lose himself so fully in his mourning.

The Hawthornes were fraying at the seams. One needed only to tug, and they would split entirely.

When Signa reached for another scone, Diana drew the plate away with a thin smile that sharpened Signa’s spine. She straightened, drawing her hand away in doubt.

Just eat it. Death’s words were cold. If you’re hungry, eat the scone.

But Death had no hold in society, no knowledge or stake in its politics.

Don’t drink or eat too much, or too little. Only the right amount. Those were the lessons that her etiquette book taught. Signa just hadn’t known what qualified as too

much. Now she knew it was three scones. So despite Death’s push, she didn’t take another, even when Diana began prying again into the business of the Hawthornes, hunting for gossip she would undoubtedly spread. There was no room to relax in this conversation. She was more on her guard than ever, judging every inch of her body—from where she rested her pinkie to how quick her breathing was. Did she sip too quickly? Was the amount of sugar she added to her tea appropriate?

Exhaustion weighted her shoulders; socializing was going to take more getting used to than she’d anticipated.

For so long Signa had waited for this day; waited for the time when she would sit and chat with her friends as part of high society. For the time when others would show interest in her, and she might finally have the company she’d spent so long yearning for. Yet when Marjorie returned to the parlor, it felt as though an eternity had passed, and all Signa wanted was freedom and a good nap.

Charlotte was the last of the ladies to depart, and much to Signa’s surprise, she refused to linger. Her eyes skimmed over Signa as a quick “I’m glad to see that you’re doing well” passed her lips before she grasped her skirts and followed Marjorie out the door.

Tears burned Signa’s eyes. Charlotte had recognized her. She’d recognized her, and yet… It meant nothing. Perhaps all that time together—all that friendship—had meant more to Signa than it had to Charlotte.

She’d forgotten that Death stood behind her until he grumbled, “Two of those girls behave as though they’ve just been let off their leading strings.”

Swiping her eyes, Signa pivoted to him. “What are you still doing here?”

Again the shadows around him shifted, forming a table for him to kick his feet onto. “Good day to you, too. I came to see how you were settling in.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Signa turned and paced the

length of the parlor, not wanting him to see her so shaken. “How are you even here?”

He considered this, tipping back in his shadow chair. “You’ve spared Blythe for now, but that doesn’t mean she’s cured.” The chair straightened, and he looked to her. “I’m here because she’s still teetering on the bridge between the living and the dead. Because of that, when we are both near enough to her, it seems you can see me. I wasn’t sure until today if that would be the case.”

Blast this unfortunate connection of theirs. What she wouldn’t give to cover the veil into the afterlife and never look upon it again. “And why is it I can hear your voice in my head?”

“Same reason you can hear my voice when I speak aloud, I suppose.”

Were he corporeal, Signa would have shaken him. As it was, she spun on her heel and stepped toward him with a wrath that fueled her entire body. “Couldn’t you see that I was busy?” she snarled. “This was important to me.”

Death turned as though he could see the girls through the walls. “Why? I’d think such creatures only important to their mothers. Didn’t you find it odd how two of them asked solely about your fortune and your family? They asked little about you.”

True as it was, the last thing she wanted was to agree with him. And so she said stubbornly, “They’re to be my friends.”

“Your friends?” He stood, the table and chair he’d formed slipping back into the shadows. “Why? I’ve never seen you so…”

“So talkative?” Signa pressed. “Never seen me with company?”

They were nearly chest to metaphorical chest now. This near to him, Signa’s skin buzzed not with fear but power. Determination. He was Death, and because of that she had no need to filter herself. No need to impress him.

Death bent so that his shadowed face hovered before hers, only a breath between them. “I’ve never seen you so demure, and so sickeningly stifled.” A scone flew at her then, landing hard on her chest. She barely caught it before it hit the floor. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Why would you let one person’s opinion prevent you from having it?”

She curled her fingers into the flaky crust of the scone. “I was being polite. There are rules about these things—”

“What you were being was hungry. And if you’re hungry, you should eat. Damn your rules.” There was something dark about his tone. A sour disappointment that, to her frustration, gnawed at her.

“And what does it matter to you?”

The question ignited a burning rage in his eyes. An inferno that had him before her again, sucking the air from the room. “It matters because you’re better than that. You were not made to be meek or wanting. If you embraced who you are, imagine the power you might wield. Imagine the things you could do.”

“You mean the lives I could take?” Signa stepped closer. “Imagine the spirits I could speak to? The bidding I could do for the dead? I don’t need to imagine it; I live it. That life consumes me, and it’s not one I want.”

“How do you know?” he demanded. “When all you do is run, how do you know what it is that you want? Would you rather spend your life pretending to be whatever it is you were with those girls?”

She threw the scone back at him, and to her surprise, it didn’t slip through him as the knife had when she’d stabbed him. He caught it.

“Leave,” she said once she’d managed to stifle her surprise. “You don’t know me, and you never will. It’s as you once said, we’re both very busy people, and you’re nothing but a distraction.”

He scoffed, the sound so human. So male. “I came to offer my assistance. A murder would be significantly

simpler to solve, I imagine, if you knew how to use your abilities.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, not caring to consider the offer. “I can already speak with spirits—”

“So you see no value in an ability to walk through walls?” he demanded. “To alter your body so that others cannot see you? To become the very night itself, and submerge into the shadows? Imagine the spying you might do.”

Those would be useful powers, yes, but accepting that meant accepting his help, and she had no desire to entertain him and his ego for any longer than necessary.

“All my life, I have wanted nothing more than to be rid of you.” She squared her shoulders before the shadows that loomed over her. “I begged, night after night, death after death, for you to leave me alone. And now you want to offer me help?” There were not enough words. Not enough savageness within her to tell him the extent of what she thought of that. “I hate you, and I hate everything you’ve done to me. I will solve this, and I will do so without you.”

All around them, the day winked out. The darkness was all-consuming as Death grew larger, his anger so palpable that it suffocated the room. Above them, the chandelier shook, its lights flickering like an approaching storm. The sunlight filtering in from the windows snuffed out like a candle.

“You no longer have a choice in this.” Death’s voice shook the walls, knocking two porcelain teacups to the floor. “I tire of these games. I know you better than you think, just as I know that you will never rid yourself of me, Little Bird. As I will never rid myself of you.”

The shaking ceased, and daylight streamed back into the parlor as Death retreated to his shadows. “Our lessons begin at midnight. I’ll see you then.”

She was about to yell that he shouldn’t bother. But the moment she opened her mouth to speak, a scone flew from

the table and into her mouth, choking off the protest Death refused to hear.