LATE THAT EVENING, AS RAIN THRASHED AGAINST THE WINDOWS and the
thunder raged, Signa woke to hands squeezing her throat.
She’d been lost in nostalgia, dreaming of eating sweets with Percy and taking lessons in the drawing room with Marjorie until the corners of her vision tunneled inward with darkness. Suddenly it was Percy’s face she saw, eyes dark as a moonless night as he squeezed her throat. Blythe stood behind him, half turned and ignorant of what was happening. Signa reached toward her, trying to call out. Her scream rang silent in the night, vision fading. Yet even as Percy’s image disappeared, the grip on her throat did not cease. It was then—as Signa gasped for breaths she could not find—that she realized her breathlessness was no dream and jolted herself awake.
Gundry stood across from her, at least three times his normal size. His fangs were bared, shadows dripping from his maw. He was snarling, though it was impossible for Signa to hear anything over the rushing of her blood.
She tried to lurch upright only to find that she couldn’t move. Sitting on her chest was an older woman Signa had never seen, who beamed down at her with a watery smile that reminded Signa of her grandmother. The woman smoothed hair from Signa’s forehead with one hand as she pressed down on her throat with the other.
“It’s all right,” crooned the spirit. “Go back to sleep.”
Signa tried to reach into her pocket, panicking when she found it empty. She’d used the last of the belladonna while revealing her powers to Blythe. Her hands trembled as dread rolled over her. She bucked, desperate to free herself, but the spirit held tight, and the cold sank deeper into her.
It was like the time Thaddeus had possessed her all those months prior,
back in Thorn Grove’s library. Though this was no possession—Signa still had control of her body, even if she was having trouble using it—the spirit was wholly consuming, and it was a horrifying realization that she could very well be murdered.
But all Signa could think was that she had no right to die. Not with Elijah’s fate hanging in the air, and certainly not before she was able to have a life with Death at her side. This wasn’t the time to test whether her ability to evade death extended to suffocation, and so, as her heartbeat slowed and Signa stood on the threshold between life and death, she seized the short opportunity she had and let her powers flood in before she lost consciousness.
Signa? Death’s voice was in her head at once, and if not for the spirit on top of her, she might have cried in relief. Signa, what’s happening?
There was no time to tell him. The familiar frost of her reaper abilities settled into her veins, steadying her. Every shadow in the room consumed her, and she felt invincible. She pushed aside her doubts and the memory of the terror in Blythe’s eyes as tendrils of darkness snaked around her fingertips. She drew it around her, letting it feel her desperation and need for escape. And then she pushed that darkness out like a weapon, and let the night do her bidding.
Signa couldn’t say what happened in those final moments. She didn’t know just how many shadows had gathered to her, and she had no awareness that all of Foxglove had stilled in awe of the power she’d commanded. She only knew that moments later she was rolled over on all fours and choking on the breaths her body demanded. Her throat was raw, aching, the skin around it bruised. Whether from the cold or the death that had nearly claimed her, Signa trembled so fiercely that it was impossible for her to move from the grimy sheets on which she’d fallen asleep.
Only then did Death arrive. He came in a gale that shook the windows, clashing against the manor as he pinned the spirit against the wall and shackled her with his shadows. Thunder crashed as he lifted his hand, the night pooling into a scythe in his palms.
Death did not speak nor give the cowering spirit so much as a moment before he struck. But the blade hovered against the woman’s throat, stalled by the shadows Signa used to halt it in the final second. There was fury in Death’s eyes as he whirled to face her.
“She was trying to kill you,” he spat, pressing down harder and testing Signa’s hold on him. “Do you realize how much energy it takes for a spirit to touch a living soul? For even daring to lift a finger against you, she should die.”
“Gundry would have taken her,” she argued, trying to keep her voice calm.
“You foolish girl. Gundry can’t reap spirits!”
Signa steadied her hold as the hound whined. “Don’t take her,” she said, staring Death firmly in the eyes until his shoulders eased, his rage ebbing just enough for Signa to drop her shadows and trust that he wouldn’t make any rash moves.
Her teeth were chattering as she forced herself onto shaky feet. While she would have loved to stand tall before the woman, she had to draw a blanket from the floor and wrap it around herself as she walked, desperate for the mere promise of warmth. She swayed, and while she wasn’t coughing up blood this time, a glance out of the corner of her eye revealed that the color was leaching from her hair, once again turning it silver. She’d have to worry about that later.
Having been focused solely on trying to save her own life, Signa hadn’t gotten the best look at the spirit. As she stood before her now, the woman wasn’t quite as old as she’d thought, perhaps in her sixties. She had an intense widow’s peak, and a permanent scowl that created deep crevices around her lips and forehead. Her shrewd lips were painted crimson, and the look in her eyes was nothing short of contempt as Signa approached and asked, “Who are you?”
“I have waited twenty years for you to walk through those doors.” The spirit’s voice was tight and cruel, and it reminded Signa so much of her late aunt Magda that her stomach flipped.
“You have two options,” Signa began, allowing herself to lean in to how natural the words felt, riled by the threat and the powers coursing through her. “You will release your grip on this world and move on to the afterlife, or you can be removed by force. Should you choose the second option, know that your soul will come to a permanent end.”
The spirit didn’t drop her gaze from Signa’s as she said, “The moment he releases his hold on me, I will try to kill you again and again, until you join me on the other side.”
Signa was grateful for the blanket draped around her and for the fact that she was already shivering so that the spirit wouldn’t know the effect those words had.
Perhaps she’d been a fool not to inspect the remainder of the manor before she slept. With the presence of her parents lingering in every inch of Foxglove, she’d wanted to crawl into a space of her own and settle. But it wasn’t only herself she had to think about now, and with a start Signa thought of Elaine, alone in the servants’ quarters without a soul to help her.
Right then Signa did not feel the stirrings of Life’s powers within her. She felt every bit a reaper as she looked upon Death and commanded, “Take her,” before she fled the room without waiting to see his scythe fall.
Signa dropped the blankets somewhere behind her and ran to the servants’ quarters. With the storm raging outside, the sky was so dark that Signa hadn’t the faintest clue what time it was as she raced down the stairs. The cold floor against her bare feet did little to ease her shivering, but nothing could slow her until, finally, she saw Elaine seated at a table near the kitchen, still in her nightgown as she sipped from a steaming cup of coffee. The woman half yelped when she noticed Signa.
Alone. Elaine was perfectly, wonderfully alone.
“Miss Farrow!” Elaine held one hand to her heart, the other nearly spilling her coffee. “You gave me a fright!” She must have noticed Signa’s shivering then, for her eyes narrowed. “Has something happened? Heavens, what have you done to your hair?”
Signa tried to push silver strands back. “Yes,” she answered slowly, not having thought this far ahead. She’d expected that if she were being harassed, then surely Elaine would be, too. Signa had to shake her head to right herself, worrying her bottom lip. “I apologize for barging in. I heard an awful noise and needed to check that you were well.”
Elaine’s face relaxed. “I’m sure it was only the wuthering that you heard.” She started to reach for Signa’s hand, but Signa flinched back. She had been using her powers only moments before—if any effect of them remained, the last thing she wanted was to harm Elaine.
“The manor is large,” Elaine began gently, not seeming at all offended. “And it’s new to us both. I admit that I didn’t sleep as well as I should have, either. But one day soon I’m certain we’ll both feel comfortable here, especially once… Miss Farrow, do you hear a piano?”
Sure enough, there was most certainly the distinctive sound of an untuned piano playing above them.
Signa felt every bit like one of Fate’s marionettes as she forced an unwilling smile to her lips. “As you said, I’m sure it’s only the wuthering.”
“Shall we investigate?” Elaine asked with grim severity, beginning to stand. Signa quickly waved her back down.
“I would much rather you begin breakfast once you’re done with your coffee.” It was far too early, and her stomach much too queasy for food. But she had to keep Elaine occupied while she sought out the source of the sound.
Fortunately, it didn’t take much coercing. Elaine seemed more than happy to cup her coffee tight and pretend she heard nothing, leaving Signa to hurry back upstairs.
Three spirits had taken up occupancy in the drawing room. Two of them sat on furniture untouched by time—a mother and father, by the look of them. The woman was older, with generous curves and a face caked with makeup that Signa could see even on her translucent skin. Her hair had been piled almost comically high atop her head, and Signa found herself wondering how on earth it was keeping its hold.
The spirit beside her was a small, reedy man. He wore spectacles that sat low on the bridge of his aquiline nose, squinting through them as he watched the third spirit, who sat on the bench of a pianoforte, playing a dreary tune with a level of mastery Signa could never hope to reach. Physically, she appeared to be around Signa’s age, with a long, slender neck and a small oval face that pinched as she focused on the piano. As she played, her translucent fingers never disturbed the thick caking of dust. A rat lay beneath the bench, long dead and little more than a skeleton that the spirit’s ankle hovered beside.
The girl’s mother and father watched proudly until the woman’s head twisted to the side at the sound of a floorboard creaking beneath Signa’s feet. She smacked the man Signa could only assume was her husband on the shoulder to get his attention. At once, the piano ceased.
“It’s the girl,” whispered the older woman as she shifted out of her seat to get a better look at Signa. “That’s her, isn’t it?”
“Is it that time already?” asked the man. “Where’s the husband?”
The younger girl spun on the piano bench. In a nasally, high-pitched
voice, she answered, “It doesn’t look like she’s got one. There’s no ring on her finger!”
If they wanted to believe that Signa could neither see nor hear them, she’d let them. Without looking any of them in the eye, she drew closer to the piano bench as if inspecting it for the source of the music that’d been playing.
“No husband?” The man scoffed as he circled her, too close for Signa’s comfort. “You mean to tell me she’s to inherit this house alone?”
“Perhaps that’s how they do it now, Father. It would certainly be a nice change.”
“We should have been warned that she was coming.” It was the woman who spoke now, her voice conveying just how greatly Signa’s existence displeased her. “She should have sent staff to prepare the home.”
Her lungs half clogged from the sheer amount of dust in Foxglove, Signa agreed.
“We always knew the day would come.” The man removed his spectacles and puffed a breath upon them before he rubbed the glass and put them back on. Given that there was no air in his lungs, the effort made little difference. “A home like this could only stay empty for so long.”
Behind him, the woman placed her hands on either side of her hair as if to balance it while she strolled closer. “Even after all these years, you still give the Farrows too much credit for their taste. You were twice the architect that man could have ever hoped to be. Have you forgotten they’re the reason we’re stuck here to begin with?”
“Mother’s right,” added the girl. “Perhaps we should remind her of that. This home has been ours far longer than it’s belonged to her.” The girl spat the last word like it was a disease and rushed so close to Signa that it took everything in her not to flinch. “All we’d have to do is slam a few windows and creak a few floorboards, and she’ll go running.”
“We can haunt the mirrors,” added the mother. “Oh, I do love a good mirror haunting. The girl cannot remain here if she has no staff. We’ll have to keep scaring them off.”
“I’m not going anywhere near that maid she brought,” the younger girl hissed. “Not when she looks like that. You’ll have to be the one to haunt her, Mother.”
Signa bit the inside of her cheek, anger rising. It was one thing to toy
with her, but to haunt Elaine?
“The only thing you will do is put an end to that music.” Signa marched straight toward the piano and slammed it shut. “Dear God, can you imagine if someone heard you playing without a living soul sitting on the bench? And don’t you dare even think of haunting anyone.”
So stunned were the spirits that for a long moment no one spoke. The mother glanced at her husband, and quietly whispered, “Is she talking to—”
“To you?” Signa settled her hands on her hips. “Of course I am.”
Silence hung heavy around them before the man cleared his throat and the daughter whispered in a shrill, disbelieving voice, “You can see us?”
“Do you think I’m talking to the walls?” Signa folded her arms. “Now listen to me, because this can be our home or my home, but this is certainly not your home. If you so much as creak the floorboards, I will have my hound dig up your buried bones so that I can burn them to cinders. Is that understood?”
“Are you the Farrows’ girl?” asked the man. “The baby, Signa?”
“I am.” There was the tiniest tremor in her voice when she answered. “And I’m trying to make a life here for myself, so there will be no more piano.”
The girl frowned as she drew her bony hands from the keys. “But we’ve been playing for years.…”
“I’m sure you have,” Signa chided. “But I’ll not have people thinking my home is haunted.”
“But it is haunted,” the man noted. Signa turned to him. Though he couldn’t drink, he stirred a rusted spoon in an old teacup beside him, going through the motions. The liquid had evaporated long ago, leaving only a dark ring inside the cup.
“I know that.” Signa slid a hand through her hair, exasperated. “But I don’t need the rest of this town believing I’m a deranged spinster who dallies with ghosts.”
The spirits shared a look, and Signa all but scowled at them again. “Never mind.” She waved the girl from the piano bench. “Off of that. Off! I won’t have any more of it.”
“Then what do you propose we do?” the girl demanded, eyes flashing with such anger that for a moment Signa braced herself for the worst. “We’ve few other options to entertain ourselves!”
It was then that Signa felt the cold sting of Death settle against her skin. The spirits’ eyes grew wide as they huddled together, away from the reaper that Signa could not see. Still, his presence alone was enough to bolster her spirit.
“You could always try passing on to the afterlife,” she mused. “I’m sure there’s plenty to do there. I hear you can even reincarnate if you’d like.” Still in her nightgown with her hair strewn about, she was far from prepared for this conversation, let alone the situation at hand. Her throat remained raw, voice hoarse and rife with tension.
As she noticed the tremors racking Signa’s body, the woman asked, “What happened to you?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” Again Signa cast a look down the hall, ensuring Elaine was still in the servants’ quarters. She took a seat on a footstool across from them, arms wound around herself. The chill within her was easing some, not nearly as bad as if the woman had possessed her. At least she could be glad about something.
“Just how many spirits live in Foxglove?” Signa wished with everything in her for a lower answer. She was unprepared for the truth of it to roll from the man’s tongue, his words spoken too quickly as he glanced between her and Death.
“Somewhere close to twenty, I imagine,” he said. Signa’s arms wrapped tighter as a wave of sickness overcame her, wishing she could look upon Death’s face. Twenty. She had thought it odd enough to see a trio of spirits together. There were places she’d passed in her lifetime where spirits had roamed freely, certainly. Lands that had once been ancient battlefields and hospitals. But for twenty spirits to live under a single roof? It was preposterous.
“Where are they?” Signa pressed. “Why haven’t I seen more of them?”
“Everyone has their favored spots.” The spirit pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “We like ours right here, away from all the riffraff. Most stay in the ballroom, though there are a few that roam the halls.”
Signa’s blood went cold. Of course they’d be in the ballroom.
“They must know I’m here.” She sounded as though she’d swallowed a frog, the words a low rasp. “Why haven’t more of them sought me out, and why have they left my maid alone?” It didn’t seem wise to share with them that she’d been attacked only minutes earlier. She didn’t want them getting
any ideas.
What Signa didn’t expect was for them to share another look.
“What is it?” She pulled the footstool closer to them. The two spirits on the couch leaned away as she neared, but rather than look at Signa, the older woman peered just over her head, toward the servants’ quarters.
“I wouldn’t go near that maid of yours even if you paid me to do it. There’s something wrong with her skin. None of us have seen it before, and no one wants to be the first to find out what it means.”
“What do you mean? There’s nothing on her skin.”
“It glows,” the youngest added with such earnest vigor that she seemed more youthful than she was. “You can’t see it? It’s all over her, and it brightens to silver whenever any of us get near.”
Signa forced herself to keep calm beneath the spirits’ scrutiny, not wanting to give away her concern. Was it possible her powers had done something to Elaine without her realizing it?
Death must have shifted nearer, and oh what Signa wouldn’t have given to be able to hear his voice in that moment. If he’d seen anything strange with Elaine, she had no doubt that he would have said something.
“We won’t bother you,” the man promised, though his eyes were trained to a spot just above Signa’s shoulder, where Death must have stood. “But we can’t make any promises for the others.”
The windows in the sitting room flew open as a bitter gust blew in. Darkness crept through, and though she couldn’t fully make out his individual shadows, she imagined they were closing in on the spirits as the darkness spread toward them, sucking all light from the room.
The man drew his family away, stepping in front of them like a shield. “We won’t harm anyone!” he promised this time, firmer.
Signa believed him. Still, she’d have to be cautious. All spirits who remained in the mortal world were held by an intense emotion or strong desire. For Thaddeus, he’d wanted to read all the books in the library, while Lillian had wanted to save her daughter and find her killer. Magda had remained because she was bitter and jealous and all-around terrible. It wasn’t a surprise that some of those who had died here at Foxglove might be fueled by vengeance.
Signa had no belladonna left, and even if she did, the cost of slipping into her reaper form had become too great. Even now she could feel the
weariness in her bones, as though she’d aged ten years within minutes. But the spirits didn’t need to know that, let alone understand how her powers worked. They needed only to understand that she was a threat, and the weight of what she could do. She held her hand out, and at once the windows slammed shut, the darkness retreating.
“I am a reaper.” Signa imagined that she was Blythe as she iced over her glare. “I am the night incarnate, the ferrier of souls.” They were the same words that Death had spoken to her all those months ago, on the night of Percy’s death. She’d held them within her for so long, languishing his words. It was time for them to ring true. “Death is at my command. You three would be wise to remember that, and to tell the other spirits as much. Should one try to raise a hand against me or any of my visitors or staff, I will not hesitate to strike. This is my home, and if anyone here does not wish to abide by my rules, they should leave now. Should they break my rules, they will leave without choice, and there will be no future for them. No afterlife. Do you understand?”
Not a single one of the spirits blinked their wide eyes. The younger girl even gripped her father by the sleeve before he nodded to Signa.
Only then did Signa allow herself to turn from them, and toward Death. “Please give the others that same warning,” she said, bowing her head in
a silent thanks as she felt the cold slip away from her, understanding that Death had gone to do just that. Only then, as warmth slipped back into the room as the trio of spirits eased in the absence of Death’s presence, did Signa feel the prickle of eyes along her skin and know there was another watching her even now. She tried to snatch a glance at it, though as she turned, Signa saw only the hem of a dress disappear.
It was the same dress she’d seen when she’d arrived. Not a curtain billowing in the wind as she’d hoped, nor the spirit that had tried to kill her, but someone entirely new. Someone who’d been watching her from the moment she’d entered Foxglove.
Signa didn’t spare the trio another look as she crossed the floor to follow it toward a winding hall.
Though Signa knew better than to chase a spirit—though she had learned her lesson the night she’d followed Lillian into the garden and knew how foolish this was—it seemed that old habits died hard. Because at the end of the hall, Signa followed the faint flickers of blue that urged her
forward, deeper and deeper into the bowels of Foxglove.
