FOXGLOVE’S BALLROOM MADE UP THE ENTIRETY OF THE MANOR’S TOP story.
Signa stood outside it, several feet from double oak doors she’d watched the spirit slip beneath.
A single brush of her fingertips against the doors’ delicately carved depictions of deer frolicking in a garden was all it took for her body to erupt in shivers. She couldn’t control them, shaking so fiercely that she fell against the opposite wall, hands on her throat as she did everything she could to pull air into her lungs. It was as though she’d fallen headfirst into a frozen lake, held captive beneath the ice.
Never had she felt so many spirits lingering in one place. Wherever Death had ventured off to, he wasn’t here, and every bone in Signa’s body ached to flee. What if she couldn’t defend herself? What if the spirits possessed her, and this awful chill within her never ceased?
It took a double take for her to notice that the severe-looking woman depicted on the portrait outside the ballroom doors was none other than a young Aunt Magda, and Signa could think of no worse omen.
Beneath the doors, pale light flickered. There was noise inside, too. Laughter, swishing skirts, the clattering of glasses, and words that Signa’s swimming mind couldn’t quite place. She didn’t dare let the spirits see the effect that they had on her, and she had to clench her teeth tight and focus on settling the quivering of her body. She couldn’t stop it entirely, but once she was steadier, she pressed her hand to the silver knob. Inside, the voices went silent.
It was not the ballroom’s delicate blue archways or ivory paneling that Signa noticed first, nor was it the floral mural on the vaulted ceiling. If
she’d had her wits about her, she might have noticed that the crystal chandelier rivaled the one from the queen’s palace, or perhaps that her father’s careful touch was upon every square inch of the grand estate. Instead, what she noticed were the dozen or so spirits that turned in unison to stare at her, and—only when she slipped on it in her surprise—that the floor was sleek beneath her boots.
Signa’s feet flew out in front of her, and pain rocketed through her tailbone. Several of the spirits floated closer to investigate, and Signa promptly pushed herself across the marble.
“Stay where you are!” She wished she’d had the foresight to have brought a knife with her. It would be useless, of course, though having something sharp and solid in her grip would have been a great comfort.
“It’s her,” the spirit nearest to Signa whispered, though none of the others seemed to hear. The spirit was one of the loveliest that Signa had ever seen, and she recognized her as the woman from the portrait. The one, Signa assumed, who had led her here. Her voice was like honeysuckle, so sticky-sweet that for a moment Signa forgot what she was doing.
Tentatively, as though she anticipated that Signa was little more than a skittish fawn who might dart away at the snap of a twig, the spirit drew a breath closer and leaned in so that her face hovered at Signa’s level.
“Oh, I can’t believe it’s truly you!” The woman reached out as if to stroke Signa’s cheek but remembered the impossibility at the last second. “I’ve waited a long time to see your face again, Miss Signa. My, how beautiful you’ve become.” The woman bent closer, and Signa surprised herself by not flinching on pure instinct.
“Look at that.” Her voice was awed. “You have Rima’s jaw. And that same sternness of your eyes, too. And oh! Yes, that’s it exactly! I saw the very same look of aggravation on your mother’s face more times than I could count. Your hands look soft, though. More like your father’s. That pert little nose of yours is his, too. How marvelous!”
Signa had planned for an impossible number of scenarios as she’d stood outside the ballroom doors. Turning into butter at sweet words had not been one of them. “My father?” she managed to echo, her voice raw. As little as she’d managed to glean about her mother over the years, she’d learned even less about her father. The most obvious trait she’d gathered was that he hadn’t been nearly as social as Rima.
“Who are you?” Signa was annoyed with herself for how long it took to ask the question. All the fight she’d built up had vanished the moment she’d stepped into the ballroom.
“Your mother was my best friend, though I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t know that. Who would have told you, Magda?” She tipped her head back with a laugh so gentle that Signa couldn’t believe she was talking to a spirit. “My name is Amity.”
Before she could ask anything more, Signa’s attention flashed to another spirit who’d drawn too close, lurking behind Amity. Her eyes were hollow and expressionless as she trailed from one table to the next, shuffling a dance card in and out of her pocket. Though the young woman’s face had perhaps once been sweet, the right side of her skull was cracked open, dried blood caked in her hair from when she must have fallen to her death. Signa wondered if she’d tried to run from the ballroom, only to fall over the banister. God, she couldn’t even imagine.
As Amity followed Signa’s curious eyes, her shoulders drooped. “That’s Briar. I’m sorry, I should have realized she’d be too much for you to see. I’ve grown so used to her appearance that I didn’t think—”
“It’s fine.” Signa barely recognized her own words, not knowing what had come over her. Consoling a spirit? What on earth was she thinking? “Believe me, I’ve seen worse.”
“Yes, I heard that you could see spirits! I suppose I’m glad that you can see me now, but how terrifying that must have been as a child to see things even worse than Briar. I wish I’d been there to help you.”
“You have no reason to be sorry,” Signa told her flatly. The words were strange in her mouth, like something she didn’t quite know how to shape. “It’s not as though you were responsible for me.”
“Perhaps not entirely,” Amity admitted. “Though I am your godmother. Or was, I suppose.” Signa’s mind went blank, and Amity gave her no reprieve to consider this news before she rambled on, her excitement bursting with each word. “We met at finishing school. Your mother hated the place. I was the perfect student until she arrived with her grand schemes. She always had us sneaking away in the middle of the night to visit whatever ballet or circus was performing in town. Or whoever she fancied at the time.” The spirit’s eyes sparkled at the memory. And then they faded as she peered back down at Signa with a small, tired smile.
“I saw your parents with the reaper that night. They couldn’t manage to stay in this world, but I could. I needed to make sure that someone found you, and that you’d be cared for. When I heard that Foxglove would be yours someday, I decided to stay so that I might see what kind of woman my friend’s daughter became. It’s lovely to be able to speak with you.”
How strange it felt to learn of this woman only now. Signa would have given everything to have met Amity years ago, when all she wanted was to know that there was somebody in this world who thought of her, and who wanted her safe and well.
And yet she had no business getting chummy with a spirit, especially when another had just assaulted her. And so Signa avoided Amity’s eyes as she tried to process the news that this woman was, allegedly, her godmother. She looked instead behind Amity, past a shuffling Briar, to where several spirits were dancing. There were two sets of both a man and woman spinning in an endless waltz, while three women sat gossiping at a table set with a cloth that had long aged to yellow.
Two more proud-looking young men—twins, by the look of them— argued in the corner. Every so often one would glance at a table of women. Each of the spirits was dressed in the most spectacular fashion. Though their attire was two decades outdated, the gowns billowed with the finest fabrics while fat jewels glittered from the ladies’ ears and necks. No others were obviously injured like Briar, and even with their bluish glow, they were all marvelous.
At least a minute had passed since Signa had spoken, yet even as Amity stirred beside her, restless, Signa said nothing until she took another long sweep of the room, watching the spirits reenact the same movements and conversations once, twice, and then a third time before she finally asked, “Are they all like this?”
Amity sighed as she took a seat beside Signa. The floor grew colder with her nearness, and Signa tucked herself close, fisting her hands in her skirt to spare her fingers from frostbite. “I’ve tried everything I could think of to get them out of their loops, but none of them will budge. They’ve been like this for twenty years.”
Signa didn’t miss the longing in the woman’s voice as Amity turned to watch Briar. If there was one thing in this world that she recognized, it was loneliness. Twenty years Amity had been trapped here, surrounded by
familiar faces who showed not even a spark of acknowledgment that she existed.
Signa wanted to let herself be drawn to Amity but quickly reeled in such instincts. She forced herself to remember Thaddeus, and how he’d been the most charming man until his beloved books had been damaged by a fire. He’d lost control enough to possess her, and she would never shake the chill of that memory. With a spirit, sometimes it took only a pin dropping to set them off.
“A spirit tried to kill me this morning.” Signa pressed back to her feet and stepped away from Amity. “Am I correct to assume that no one here poses a threat for the time being?”
“I should certainly hope not. I know there are some who blame your parents for what happened, but most are stuck in the same loop with no idea they’re even dead. Should they ever free themselves, I imagine most would want to leave this place for good.” She sighed, and while Signa knew better, it was hard not to trust a face so genuine, or eyes that lit with such excitement to finally have another soul to speak to.
“Not all of Foxglove is quite so depressing,” Amity noted after a thoughtful moment, an intriguing inflection in her tone. “There’s actually something I’d like to show you. Something I think you’ll love.” Her feet never moved as she glided to the door, batting gingerbread-colored ringlets over her shoulder as she checked that Signa was following.
Perhaps it was a mistake. A trap, set by a clever spirit. Signa knew what Death would say if he were to see her now, but so many years of hoping for family and wishing that someone had been there for her did not go away overnight. Signa’s chest still panged with that desire, and she hurried to follow Amity from the ballroom, down the stairs, and out the front doors of Foxglove.
 |
Fog dense as cotton swept in from the sea, shrouding the cliffside in a briny haze that salted Signa’s tongue. So dark was the sky that it was impossible to see into the distance, forcing Signa to keep close to Amity. She wouldn’t
normally have minded the weather, though the howls of wind and a resting sun did little to settle her thoughts. Ahead, Amity wavered with the wind, wisps of her billowing away with each gust. The farther they ventured from the ballroom, the more she flickered in and out of the fog.
“This way.” Her haunting voice was a beacon, leading the way anytime Signa lost sight of her. So damp was the soil that it tried to swallow Signa’s boots with every step. She struggled to keep pace, wondering all the while if it was too late to escape back to the manor. Her mind raced, trying to figure out all the ways she might cross behind the veil of life to access her abilities—and whether doing so would be worth the risk—should Amity try anything.
She hadn’t come up with a single reasonable idea by the time Amity stopped, hovering above ripe earth filled with yellow poppies and rosemary. Bushels of lavender snaked through fog-shrouded soil, twisting around flowers Signa didn’t know the names of. She couldn’t see how far the land stretched, only that it was massively overrun, with brightly hued windflowers struggling to find space to grow. It seemed there might be vegetables in this garden as well, and perhaps juniper shrubs, though it was difficult to tell, given that there were hardly any leaves and not a single berry growing on them.
“This place is far from what it once was.” Amity crouched, running her fingers through the poppies. “Your mother had an atrociously green thumb, but your father insisted on the garden. I think he wanted to give her something to care for before you arrived—something to settle her mind and ground her. He had the plans for it ready, though all they managed was to scatter some seeds before they passed. As you can see, many of them took root.”
Signa pried off her gloves and crouched to press a palm against the rich soil, fingers twirling around stems and petals. There were few things in life better than the feeling of earth against bare skin.
She didn’t know what it said about her that the first thought in her head was whether the conditions here were right for belladonna to thrive. She cast the idea from her mind as soon as she’d had it, saving such things for a later time when Fate was gone and Death was no longer so worried about her abilities.
“My father had plans for it?” she found herself asking instead, forcing
herself to a stand before she soiled her nightgown. She’d have to get a wardrobe better suited for gardening with as much time as she anticipated spending here. There was so much potential in this place; the excitement of it thrummed against her chest.
“There are sketches of what it was to become laid out in his study,” Amity said, looking pleased by Signa’s eagerness. “Edward sketched everything, never without a plan.”
Signa’s blood ran cold at the sound of her father’s name. How long had it been since she’d last heard it? Five years? Ten? Had anyone spoken it aloud since she’d lived with her grandmother?
It was no secret that Signa had wanted to remain at Thorn Grove as long as possible. She’d dreaded her arrival to Foxglove, and yet now that she was here, finally in a home of her own, she realized that all she’d really needed was a moment to herself in a place where she was in full control. A place where she could focus on having a bit of earth between her fingers. A place where she could finally just… be. No hiding. No pretenses. No being looked at as though she were a monster.
Signa crossed the garden and pressed a tentative finger to the withered juniper shrub. Perhaps it was finally time that she gave her new powers their fair shot—not because anyone else expected it of her but because she wanted to. This garden could be her playground; here, she could do whatever she wished without judgment.
She tipped her head back, savoring the brine and the wind that snarled through her hair. She’d been wrong to fear change—wrong to fear Foxglove, for it was the perfect canvas. A strange, misunderstood place she could explore to her heart’s content. Like, it seemed, had called to like. Here, she would grow roots of her own, and no one could ever force her to leave. Perhaps being alone wasn’t always such a bad thing.
Signa decided it was worth the sacrifice of her nightgown as she lay down on the bed of poppies, shutting her eyes as the earth’s chill sank into her bones.
Foxglove was going to be the perfect home.
