MITRA BOLTED THROUGH THE SNOW AND THE GNARLED BRANCHES
that scraped at them. There were eyes in the woods, concealed in the bramble and the shadows. Eyes that were forever watching, waiting to see what might happen. Lillian was nearby, luring Signa closer. Wind ripped through her hair, burrowing in her ears and rattling her brain. The dead could be bitter. They could be depressed, or restless. But the spirit that pulled Signa toward the garden was spiraling more wildly than any she’d ever felt.
A few yards ahead, shredded ivy littered the ground, torn from the iron gates—now thrown open—that barricaded the garden. Sylas’s horse waited outside, ears flat, hooves scraping at the ground. Signa was off Mitra and hurrying through the garden gates before she could second-guess herself.
The fire was still contained to the garden, though it was growing by the second. Flames devoured whatever vegetation they could find in the melting snow. The flames stretched, embers seeking purchase in a bush that flared to life beside Signa.
Sylas shoved her to the side before the fire could singe her clothing. She hadn’t even noticed him approach. “It’s too much!” he yelled, his words nearly drowned out by the roar of the flames and the croaking frogs that fled past their feet. “Get out of here!”
She ignored him. “Where is Percy?”
“The fire had already started by the time I arrived. I haven’t seen him—”
Signa gripped him by the coat, effectively silencing him. “Just who are you, Sylas Thorly? Was it you who started the fire in the library?” God, she was annoyed when her voice cracked, though no more so than when his shoulders slumped.
“Of course not—” He grasped hold of her wrist, trying to pull her from the garden, but Signa yanked free.
“Don’t touch me!” Anger festered inside her. Hot, senseless anger that didn’t care about the smoke or the garden, or anything other than whether he had betrayed her. Whether he was destroying the Hawthornes.
If Sylas was the culprit, his face revealed nothing. “I’m not involved, Signa, I swear it! Now stop being so damn stubborn and get out of here!”
Gundry panted at her side, pawing and circling, eager to flee. But even if Signa wanted to run, her body wouldn’t allow it. She was trying to decipher whether she believed his concern was genuine when coolness seized hold of her
—Lillian’s spirit grounding her to the garden.
“She wants me here,” she told Sylas, breathless. “I can’t leave.”
Sylas took hold of her hands, but this time she didn’t try to pull away. There was no obvious doubt on his face, or any sign that he thought her mad. With everything in her, she wanted to trust him. “Take the horses and get out of here,” she whispered.
The flames were mirrored in his smoky eyes. “Signa Farrow, you are a fool if you believe I would leave and allow anything to happen to you.”
Heat licked her skin, the smoke doubling by the second. It wasn’t enough to choke them yet, or to stop them, but enough to turn Lillian’s shadow ghostly where she floated above her burning grave. Her black eyes wandered to
where another figure stood, obscured by the smoke.
“Who’s there?” the figure called, and Signa nearly sagged with relief at the sound of that voice.
“Percy!” Signa ran to her cousin, whose eyes were wild and haunted. His hair was mussed and filled with leaves, and he wore his nightshirt still. “We saw the smoke, and…” Something glinted in his palms. “Is that—Percy, is that a tinderbox?”
He ran his thumb along its side and tucked the tiny silver tinderbox into the pocket of his trousers. “I had to take care of the problem.”
The wind picked up, lashing embers at Signa’s sleeve.
From her grave, Lillian snarled.
“But this is your mother’s garden,” Signa reminded him. He was too far into his own head to pay her any mind, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying it. Not with Lillian watching. “It’s where she’s—” Realization struck. “What was it that you needed to take care of, Percy?” Signa swallowed her rising dread and reached for Sylas, for she already knew the answer.
Something in Percy’s expression cracked. “She won’t leave me alone.” His voice betrayed no sadness or fear. No remorse. “You see her, too, don’t you? Is that why you’re here? Did she send you to Thorn Grove to haunt me?”
“Signa—” Though soft, Sylas’s voice cut like a blade. “We shouldn’t be here.”
He shouldn’t be. But Signa Farrow was not made of the same flesh and bone. She was made of the night, so she did not cower. “You were poisoned, cousin.” She held her hands up, as though placating a toddler. “It’s normal to hallucinate. Your mother loved you very much, but she’s gone—”
“She’s not my mother!” The yell burst from him like a tempest. “She was never my mother because my mother is a governess. She’s a whore who fled her home because she was an embarrassment to her family. My father was a fool
for ever allowing her to set foot in our home—”
“She only ever wanted what was best for you,” Signa argued, remembering the pages upon pages she’d found in Marjorie’s journal, all of them about Percy. She remembered the way the woman had watched him, always with a smile upon her lips. Always with fondness.
“If she wanted what was best for me, she should have stayed out of my life!” Free from the eye of society, he spoke with abandon. “If anyone found out, I’d be ruined. It’s not like it’s hard to tell we’re related. Just look at us— anyone who saw us side by side could surely piece it together sooner or later.”
Signa would have given anything for him to allow her to take him home and be done with all of this. Her heart ached worse than she knew what to do with because, for all his faults, Signa had begun to view Percy as she imagined one might view a brother—with unrivaled annoyance, certainly, but also with love. She’d wanted Elijah to come to his senses and let him inherit the business. She’d wanted Percy to be happy, as he was when they’d danced, laughing and teasing each other with every step.
But when she looked at him now, she saw with sudden clarity what he was: a murderer. “You poisoned yourself,” she whispered, thinking aloud as the puzzle pieces snapped together. “You knew I’d save you.”
“What I knew was that you still had one dose left of the antidote.” Never had she heard a voice so bitter. “I searched for it everywhere, but I could never find it. I needed it gone.”
“And the fire in the library?” Her voice cracked. “Would you truly have burned Thorn Grove to the ground?”
“Of course not,” he seethed. “I would have saved it after a few books burned. I would have been the hero. But you had to go and ruin that, too.”
So numb was her body that she’d hardly registered Sylas’s hand squeezing hers until he leaned in with a
whisper that was nearly stolen by the crackling flames. “You don’t have to do this. I’ll take care of him. When I let go of your hand, run.”
He freed her hand, but Signa couldn’t run. Lillian loomed behind her son, eyes damp with bloodied tears. Rage had hardened her sadness. With every inch of space she closed between them, the snow melted and the earth beneath her wilted.
The force of her anger brought Signa to her knees, and Lillian bent before her, eyes full of an apology she could not speak. The spirit reached her hand forward, commanding but not forceful, and there was a plea in her eyes. A plea Signa understood at once.
Lillian was going to possess her—but only if Signa let her.
She wanted to say no. Wanted to forget the memory of that deep, awful cold burning within her. But who else would ever allow Lillian this chance? Who else could?
She steeled herself and took hold of Lillian’s hand.
Lillian stepped within her. Signa’s eyes rolled backward as the spirit seized her. Her body felt as though someone had taken a spoon and hollowed her out. As though she were nothing more than a shell of herself; like she was living out a night terror, unable to move or command her own body.
Why?
It wasn’t her own thought, but Lillian’s that blossomed as an endless pressure in her head. Signa couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.
WHY?
She’d experienced pain like this only once before, when she’d watched her grandmother die. It was bone-deep and soul cleaving. No matter how hard she tried, Signa couldn’t shut herself away from it. She was a vessel, and Lillian the driver.
“Why did you do it?” she cried out, the words bubbling
from her throat. Every time she tried to clamp her mouth shut, her lips seared with white-hot pain.
Percy started. “It’s none of your—”
“It’s not Signa who’s asking!” Though the words came out of her mouth, it was Lillian who voiced them. Her body shuddered with chills so relentless that she wanted to throw herself into the flames. “It’s your mother.”
Percy went rigid, face pale, throat drawn in like he was holding his breath.
“Tell me the truth.” Signa wouldn’t have been certain she spoke the words aloud had Percy not flinched. “Tell me why. Tell me what I did to make you hate me.”
Lifting his chin to look into her eyes, Percy said, “You were never the one meant to die.”
