SIGNA AWOKE BEFORE DAWN—AT AN HOUR WHEN THE SKY WAS still
dim and the servants were her only company—and journeyed to the kitchen for an inspection. She pored over the pantries and the tea supply, through the honey and the jams and the flour with fervor, all while the head cook watched her with a grim frown.
“You’ll not find any rats in my kitchen,” the head cook barked. She was an old woman, her face well wrinkled and soft looking, though her eyes were stern. Signa told the woman that she was certain she wouldn’t, adding that one could never be too careful these days. Then she made up some excuse about how she wanted to practice for the day she would run her own estate.
The cook grunted, clearly unenthused about having Signa poking through the entirety of the kitchen with such scrutiny but approving her intention. And so Signa searched, testing and tasting and scouring everything. She found the containers for tea and a small glass of what she presumed must be Blythe’s real medicine, and there wasn’t a hint of belladonna in any of it.
Signa was scowling by the time breakfast rolled around nearly two hours later, and Marjorie told her as much. Not wanting anyone to ask questions, Signa tucked her frustration away for after her lessons, when there’d be more time to think through her next steps. Perhaps Sylas
would have an idea, or perhaps he’d found a lead.
She ate under Marjorie’s scrutiny, careful to take small bites when the governess was looking. And when she was done eating, Signa followed Marjorie to the parlor to begin the second half of her morning—the half that still concerned itself with the living, and with the life she was to have once her time at Thorn Grove came to an end.
And in that new life, if Signa was ever meant to take her place in society, she would need to learn how to dance.
“I understand why this lesson is necessary for you,” said Percy, who stood to greet her, straightening his shirt collar so not a single wrinkle marred the fabric. “But why am I here?”
Marjorie took a seat on the piano bench in the corner of the parlor. Her hair was pulled back into a beautiful spiral of curls, and she looked as elegant and proper as Signa had ever seen her in an ivory cotton wrapper. “If she’s to learn properly, Signa will need both music and a partner. And if I am to be the music, I need you to be the partner.”
Signa would have wagered that her directive also had to do with how Percy had taken to meandering around Thorn Grove, sighing and pathetic in his attempts to find something to do. She’d heard him outside earlier that morning, requesting a coach to be readied to drive him to Grey’s, only for a groom to inform him that Elijah had banned him from traveling there, and that they were under strict orders to comply. She hadn’t seen Percy’s reaction, though she’d heard the door he’d slammed behind him.
Signa pitied her cousin. She’d known him for nearly a month now, long enough to realize he was a Hawthorne to his core. A proud, gentlemanly Hawthorne who’d had his legacy torn from his hands.
Percy peered down at her with his fox-like eyes. This close, she noticed that his eyebrows were rather bushy, though they were so pale a red that it appeared from a distance as though he had very little. His eyelashes, too,
were pale as snow. “Are you any good at dancing?” Percy asked, to which Signa responded with an indignant, “Are you?” too quietly for Marjorie to hear. His laugh was little more than a puff of breath.
It wasn’t that Signa was a poor dancer, but one without practice—unless the nights she’d spent alone in her room counted, when she’d pretended to dance with a handsome prince who’d sweep her away from her current hovel. Signa hadn’t known any true steps back them. She’d learned them over the past week, when Marjorie had spent hours beating them into what the woman had so kindly referred to as Signa’s “thick, stubborn head.” This would be her first time practicing with a true partner, and she couldn’t deny Percy was the perfect choice. He was made for society, an aristocrat born and bred. He’d likely be able to do any dance backward, should someone request that he do so.
Percy extended a freckled hand, and as Signa took it, the pianoforte came alive with a waltz.
Signa’s gaze dipped immediately to her feet, counting her steps. She could say them silently in her head but felt it better to whisper them as she danced, to ensure she wouldn’t miss any. The concentration stilted her steps so that they were almost mechanical.
“Oh, dear cousin.” Percy snorted. “You dance as though you were made of wires and gears.”
She shushed him so sharply that his neck retracted like a turtle’s. He tripped over the rug and winced when it caused Signa to stumble, stepping on his toes with the heel of her boot. She didn’t apologize as he pulled his foot back with a gasp—it was his fault for interrupting her after all—and continued her counting.
“If you’re going to attempt to court men with those moves, the least you could learn to do is look up so you don’t trample them,” Percy hissed. “Whoever you dance with will be expecting a lady, not a mathematician. Look up.”
Signa lost her count. She jerked her eyes up to him, a sneer ready when she realized that her body was still following the steps.
Percy’s face spread into a victorious grin. “Ah, there we go!” He tightened the grip of one hand and braced the small of her back with the other as he hastened their pace to spin her around the parlor floor.
“Percy—” Marjorie warned him, speeding up the tempo as he surpassed it, pulling Signa along into his shenanigans. His laughter was so light and infectious that Signa found herself joining in, dissolving into a fit of her own as he kicked an ottoman out of their way and twirled her across the rug. They tripped over each other, nearly tumbling to the floor several times but always righting themselves in the end with some dramatic flourish.
“Still full of gears and wires?” she taunted him.
“Oh absolutely,” he shot back. “If not for me, I’m certain you’d still be crawling along the dance floor, counting from one to three.”
Signa stepped purposefully upon his toes.
So lost in their fun were they, delirious with their quips and laughter, that neither noticed Elijah Hawthorne had stepped into the parlor until Marjorie stood and the music came to a sudden halt.
Elijah’s eyes were unlike Percy’s. They were the blue of forget-me-nots, their spark hollowed out and concealed beneath shadows. Yet when he looked at his son and heard the young man’s laugh, a light shone from behind that dark shroud. A break in the storm.
Elijah opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his butler, Warwick, who hurried into the room. Footsteps echoed behind him, as did a low thunk-thunk-thunk of something heavy against the mahogany parlor floor. Byron Hawthorne strolled in behind Warwick, shoulders rolled back and a scowl upon his lips. Signa dared a look at Marjorie, who clenched her jaw and gripped the edge of
the piano tightly.
“My apologies, Master Hawthorne,” Warwick began. “He insisted—”
“Where are our shipments, Elijah?” Byron demanded, removing his gloves and handing them to Warwick. In his grasp was the same walking stick Signa had seen him use when she’d met him: rosewood, with a brass handle carved into the shape of a bird’s skull. Byron smoothed his thumb over it as he addressed Elijah, scratching a fingernail into its wood. “Grey’s will be out of food before the week’s end. If you don’t want to sign the checks, then sign the deed and be done with this game.”
Elijah held up a hand. He nodded to Percy and whispered, “Go on. Continue.”
Percy drew away from Signa. There was a hunger in his eyes. Determination in the sharpness of his jaw. “Let me fill an order.” His voice didn’t waver. “I have contacts that can expedite it. We’ll have everything no later than Wednesday.”
Elijah ignored him. “I want you to continue.” His eyes landed on Signa with such severity that she felt compelled to obey. She reached out to Percy to take him by the arm, hoping to ease the situation. The last thing she wanted was another cake incident.
But her cousin’s focus was locked on his goal. Percy clenched his fists and took three steps toward his father. “I promise I can take care of it. I know what to order, and I know where to get it. I’ll see to the delivery myself and ensure its quality upon arrival. If you’d only let me try, you’d see—”
“I said continue, boy!” Elijah’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. “Or has your head filled with so much air that you cannot hear me? Have you forgotten that you are dancing with your cousin right now? You have an obligation to her, not to some order slips. Do not ignore her for talk of work.”
They’d gotten a little practice in already, and what Signa wanted more than anything was for Percy to be happy. Seeing how much Grey’s meant to him made her want it for him; her dancing could wait. But before Signa could speak, Marjorie intervened.
“Sir, we were nearly finished,” she said. “Let Percy take care of this matter. Compared to a dance, it’s far more pressing—”
If Signa didn’t know better, she’d think from the chill that tore through the room that Elijah himself were Death. The look he flashed Marjorie rendered the entire room into silence. Signa didn’t dare to so much as breathe until Elijah took a seat in a plush emerald chair and folded one leg over the other.
He didn’t look at his brother again, and Byron instead gave Marjorie a look of warning that had her brushing a hand tenderly against her cheek, as if she was recalling where he’d slapped her.
“You will come to regret these choices of yours, brother.” Byron’s hostility carried across the room. “I thought when Lillian died that you would step up. Yet look at how she pulls you down with her even now, six feet under. That woman will be your death, mark my words. She is not worth this.”
“Had she agreed to be yours, you’d have thought otherwise. Now”—Elijah turned to Percy and Signa
—“continue.”
Defeated, Marjorie slumped into her seat as Warwick set one hand upon Byron’s back. Byron shrugged him off, cursing his brother, but he didn’t struggle as he was ushered out of Thorn Grove. With no room left to argue, a scowling Percy took Signa by one arm. She winced as he yanked her back into position, fingers digging into her skin. Again the music around them swelled, and they danced.
This time, neither missed a step.
