DAYS AT THORN GROVE WERE NO LONGER STRUCTURED AFFAIRS.
Gone were the lessons and any remnants of etiquette, replaced by a somberness that fell upon the house like a mourning veil. For its part, Thorn Grove as a whole was eager to return to some semblance of normalcy. It was obvious in the way the servants kept their heads ducked low, and how no one dared speak of what had happened during the ball, or of Marjorie’s sudden disappearance three nights prior.
Without a governess to oversee her teachings and with all the Hawthornes in a state, Signa was left with little supervision and an abundance of time. Mostly she found herself sleuthing through Thorn Grove and poring over the remaining staff logs with Sylas by candlelight, investigating the estate’s inhabitants as she tried to find a way forward. Tried to find some sort of clue to show her where to look next.
Elijah had taken to drinking again. He spent his days with his sick children and his evenings pacing the halls, searching for a wife he’d never find.
Blythe was recovering alone in her bedroom, still so sick that she refused all company but her father’s. And while Signa wished more than anything to pay her a visit, she knew that if Blythe still had the mind not to want visitors, then she was at least faring well enough to be coherent and
self-conscious.
Percy was finally walking without assistance, but he remained shaken from his mother’s appearance. While his skin had warmed with color and light had once again found its way into his eyes, he ate and drank so little that his skin clung to his bones, his face skeletal in its gauntness. He spent his days like his father spent his nights, pacing the halls and muttering to himself, so lost in his own thoughts that Signa only watched and dared not speak. She supposed his behavior was normal enough. Percy believed himself visited by his mother’s ghost. Just how was someone expected to deal with that?
What Signa didn’t expect was that Percy had taken to disappearing for long hours in the evening when he thought no one was watching. From her open balcony, she would hear him leave, and watch as he journeyed to the stables, then to the woods on horseback minutes later. He returned late in the evening and with enough dirt on his hands that Sylas had sent a note the evening prior, detailing Percy’s appearance.
“You should take a break,” Sylas told Signa when she joined him in the stables after Percy had disappeared one evening; she was determined to discover exactly where her cousin ventured. She was haggard, her hair sticking up at odd angles and her eyes weighed down by deep purple shadows. “You’ve done so much for the Hawthornes already. Look at what this is doing to you.”
Signa leaned against a wall, pinching the bridge of her nose as she waited for him to ready the horses. “I don’t care what it’s doing.” She had to bite her tongue to stop herself from spitting the words, not angry with him so much as she was frustrated by the entire situation.
There was more to this puzzle that she wasn’t seeing, and there could be no relaxing until she knew the truth of it all. The Hawthornes were the closest thing to a real family she’d ever had. If it meant a thousand more sleepless
nights until she was able to ensure their safety, then so be it. “Would you please just ready the horses?”
“What do you think you’re going to find tonight that you won’t be able to find tomorrow?” Sylas insisted, sterner this time. “You need to take care of yourself—”
She pushed him aside and headed to the tack room to get the saddle herself. Her body buckled from the weight of it, and though Sylas was right there—arms folded as he glowered at her—he didn’t lift so much as a finger to help. When her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed, he merely shrugged. “Figure it out yourself if you’re doing so well.”
She had half a mind to drop the saddle on his foot. Such a brute was he that it would serve him right, though Signa couldn’t deny that he was a brute who was nice to look at, even through the haze of her headache. Even with all she felt for Death, there were moments with Sylas—with his broad grin and annoying muscles and disheveled hair— when slivers of doubt crept in. A tiny, niggling curiosity about what could have been with Sylas, instead.
Not that it meant anything, of course. He had told her already that there was someone in his life that he cared for deeply, and now it was the same for her. She only wished she knew who, exactly, it was who had captured his heart. For now though, it was a trivial curiosity. There were far more pressing matters that demanded her attention.
“Are you going with me or not?” she asked at last, shoving aside those thoughts as she let herself into Mitra’s stall and hauled the saddle up and onto her back. The horse nudged her nose into Signa’s hand.
Only then did Sylas sigh with the realization that this wasn’t a fight he’d win. “Of course I am. Step aside.” He took a bridle and finished readying Mitra, everything about him exasperated. She tried not to let herself smile.
They left soon after, Gundry on their heels. Sylas led the charge through snow-covered moors, toward the woods
that stretched ahead with branches waiting to snare them. “It’s likely he’s gone to the garden,” Signa said as she
peered down at hoof tracks in the snow that made a straight line toward the trees. “Has he ever said anything to you while waiting for a horse?”
“Your cousin isn’t one to speak with the help,” Sylas mused. “Too gentlemanly, that one.”
Signa followed the tracks through the clawing trees into the belly of the woods, where they converged with something that gave her pause—a new pair of boot tracks in the snow, too small to belong to Percy.
Sylas slid off his mount and stooped to inspect them. “Whoever these belong to may still be here.” His voice was barely a whisper. “The print is clearly defined, which means it’s fresh.”
Signa scanned Percy’s tracks again. He wasn’t in his right mind since being targeted with the poison, and for his own safety, these new tracks couldn’t be ignored. “Follow Percy,” she said. “See if you can find out what he’s up to, and make sure he doesn’t try anything reckless. I’ll follow these footprints. Perhaps they’ll lead to Marjorie.”
It was clear in the tension of his shoulders just how displeased Sylas was with this decision. Dragging a hand down his jaw, he sighed and pulled himself back onto his mount. “We meet back at the stables in an hour,” he said firmly. “If you’re not there, I’m coming to find you.”
“One hour,” she promised, giving him a hard look as she gripped the reins. “I’ll see you then.” And with a gentle kick to Mitra’s side Signa left him, following the tracks as they led her along a path she’d yet to explore.
Deeper and deeper into the forest she went, until the footprints disappeared beneath dirt and bramble and all that coated the forest floor. The woods were denser here. An area less traveled, where vegetation would be flourishing if not for the snow. Signa eased herself from Mitra, crunching twigs beneath her boots as she held the
reins tight.
There was something peaceful about winter; a stillness that Signa often felt herself falling into. But this deep into the woods, with her head still pulsing, it was unnerving. Goose bumps rose along her skin as she pressed against the warmth of Mitra’s side, uncertain how much farther they could safely venture. She was bending to see if she could push some of the bramble aside to clear a path when a voice called from behind her, soft and familiar, “Careful. The bark is poisonous.”
Signa whirled to find Charlotte, breath pluming the sky. She was dressed in a thick emerald cloak and carried a wicker basket in her hands.
“It’s called a poison sumac,” Charlotte told her, beckoning Signa away. “It’ll give you a nasty rash if you or your horse so much as graze it.” With a smile, she added, “I learned that the hard way a few years ago, when I was first discovering these woods.”
Of course the prints belonged to Charlotte. Signa remembered Blythe telling her that Charlotte lived on the opposite edge of the woods, though she couldn’t imagine why the girl might be out in this weather. Signa’s eyes wandered to the basket in her hands. When she squinted, her head pulsed and her vision created little shapes of light in the snow beneath her feet. Signa must have swayed, for Charlotte reached out to steady her.
“Are you ill? The last thing you need to be doing right now is riding alone,” Charlotte admonished her. “Go on and take a seat here on this rock.”
Signa shut her eyes for a moment against the spinning world, then allowed Charlotte to help her sit. “It’s only a headache. It’ll pass soon enough.”
When she opened her eyes, Charlotte was frowning. She flipped the lid of her basket open to reveal an assortment of foraged goods. Chestnuts, pinecones, tiny little mushrooms of strange colors, and a piece of bark she handed to Signa.
“Willow bark,” she said by way of explanation. “Better as a tea, but if you chew on it, that should help ease your headache.”
Signa stuck the bark in her mouth without question and began to chew. She’d do anything to get rid of the pulsing aura that swam in her sight. “What are you doing out here?” Signa asked between chews, scrunching up her nose at the bark’s bitterness.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Charlotte said. “After the Christmas ball, I didn’t expect I’d see you or any of the Hawthornes around for some time. And certainly not here of all places.”
“You hardly see me anyway.” Signa surprised even herself with how bluntly she spoke. “I would have enjoyed seeing you that night. Or anytime, really. It feels as though a wall has been built between us.”
“It does feel that way,” Charlotte admitted. “Though it’s by no fault of yours. You’ve seen the vultures that surround us, Signa. If any of them ever knew my past—if they knew what happened between my mother and your uncle—I would never hear the end of it. We came this far to rid ourselves of the scandal, so imagine my surprise when you showed up, only months before my season.” She sat down on the rock, warm hazel eyes meeting Signa’s. “It’s been a long time, and I didn’t know what kind of person you had become. I just want to make a good match, and to take care of my father.”
Perhaps it was the bark, or perhaps it was the conversation, but Signa was already feeling a little better. Frustrating as it was, she was glad to know that she and Charlotte felt similarly. “I understand,” she said. And she meant it, for she’d felt similar worries upon seeing Charlotte at Thorn Grove.
“I would have thought you’d have given up foraging with your approaching debut,” Signa teased her, fingers curling around some moss. “Some would call you a witch for this
wonderful remedy of yours.”
“It takes a witch to know one,” Charlotte scoffed. “You think I didn’t see you coming out of the apothecary? You’ve always enjoyed plants as much as I’ve enjoyed discovering what the woods have to offer on any given day.” She shut her basket tight and lifted her chin high. “It’s nice to have something to do that doesn’t require getting all dolled up or parading myself around, but mostly I continue because the willow bark helps my father with his arthritis.”
“That’s kind of you,” Signa said, hoping that if she softened her tone, Charlotte would realize she meant it.
In the end, Charlotte did relax a little. “What about you?” she asked. “I’m surprised you were allowed to ride alone. What are you doing out here?”
“I have an escort,” Signa told her, teeth aching from all the chewing. She delicately picked a sliver of bark from her tongue. “We ended up separated, though. Percy’s been coming out here lately, and I’ve been worried about him. Have you seen him?”
Charlotte was slow to choose her next words. “He and Blythe used to help me with foraging, and I’d tell them all about what was edible and what wasn’t. But as we grew older, it was improper for us to spend time alone with each other. I see him sometimes, like tonight, but only in passing. He seemed in a hurry. I think he was going to visit his mother.”
She said it so casually. Signa had never been aware of him visiting the garden, and Sylas had never mentioned Percy visiting the stables to request a horse until the past few days. “Does he do that often?”
“Well she was his mother,” Charlotte answered, speaking more freely in the woods. More like the old friend Signa had once known. “Of course he does. Blythe used to as well, before the garden was locked and she took ill.”
Signa spat out the rest of the bark as she mulled over those words. “Are there others who visit?” Signa wasn’t
certain what she needed to know, but there was a curiosity to be quelled. She stood as Charlotte did and followed her in the direction to the garden.
“Lillian didn’t entertain guests there, no,” Charlotte admitted, scratching Mitra’s neck as they walked. “But Mr. Hawthorne did prefer to have someone escort her there. Usually, a servant, or a groom from the stables.”
Electricity shot through Signa’s spine. As much as she enjoyed Sylas’s company, curiosity ate at her, and she couldn’t shake the questions that piled on one after the other: How was it that a stable boy would have such nice boots and gloves? Why was it that the day he’d been meant to escort her to the garden, he’d chosen to ride the unruliest horse and get himself lost in the woods? Had he wanted to prevent her from getting inside?
He knew about the library, too. He knew how to get there despite being a stable boy. He’d also been the one to show her the secret passages.
And before that, after she’d found the garden, he’d been so quick to accept her offer of money and a position should he waver in his loyalty to the Hawthornes. He claimed it was to help someone he cared for, though Signa couldn’t for the life of her figure out who that might be.
She liked Sylas—more than she liked most people in fact. She was comfortable around him. She’d chosen him to be her confidant in her quest to solve the mystery of Lillian’s death.
But what if she’d chosen wrong?
“I should be getting back,” she decided aloud, the urgency in her voice enough to make Charlotte jump.
“Of course,” Charlotte said, looking a little uneasy upon sensing Signa’s panic. “Do you know the… Signa, do you see that?”
A plume of gray smoke filled the sky ahead of them.
Dread filled her. In the middle of winter, it could be no accident. “Hurry to Thorn Grove and get Elijah,” she
directed Charlotte, then hurried Mitra toward the rock and used it to lever herself up and into the saddle. “Tell him to hurry.”
“Signa—”
“Percy could be in there!” Sylas, too, though Signa did not dare admit her suspicions aloud. Did not dare admit the possibility. “Please, just go!” She didn’t linger to see if Charlotte followed her command. Clutching Mitra tight, Signa rode straight toward the smoke. Toward the garden, and toward the answers that waited.
