IT WAS REMARKABLE HOW QUICKLY FOXGLOVE TOOK SHAPE, SHEDDING its
dusty drabness in favor of a poised and proper seaside manor. Signa had hired more help than she knew what to do with, and they’d been working around the clock to scrub every wall and floor panel until the water bucket ran clear. The once dreary curtains were shaken out, brightening into a lighter color than she ever would have guessed them to be. The furniture had been dusted, and the piano tuned and polished. Gone were any hints of cobwebs or the skeletal remains of rats, and as Signa ran a white-gloved finger along a bookcase in the parlor, not even a speck of dust made it onto the fabric.
It’d taken even more elbow grease than she’d anticipated, but the Foxglove she stood in now was a home to take pride in, one all who entered would respect. With the ball mere hours away, they’d made it so just in time.
“Everything looks fabulous,” Signa told the staff, all standing at attention as she paced from the parlor to the entryway, checking that everything was in place. “You’ve all done a better job than I could have hoped for.” There was a quiet, collective sigh of relief within the group. Signa’s eyes found Elaine’s at once, and the young woman shot her an apologetic look. The staff had been in a tizzy since the night of Fate’s visit, likely never having imagined their new mistress would be hosting company so prestigious as a prince, especially in a house that—until now—had looked a disaster. She didn’t doubt that word had gotten out of how she’d refused to offer the prince any refreshments, and she heard whispers of how strange it was that Signa hadn’t wanted to swap out the strange macabre art
in favor of something livelier.
She waited for the staff to scurry off to give everything one final pass before she turned her attention to the trio of spirits that stared up at her from the couch. She’d learned their names in these past weeks—Tilly was the daughter, Victoria the mother, and Oliver the bespectacled father who observed everything with a keen eye. He had, Signa learned, spent years working with her father in architecture.
“What dress will you wear tonight? Will it be marvelous?” Tilly asked with a note of longing. “You should choose carefully in case you die. Imagine being stuck in a corset every moment for the rest of your life.”
“There are far more important things to worry about tonight. Though, if you must know, yes. My dress will be marvelous.” Though Signa admittedly hadn’t considered the potential tragedy of dying in it, she certainly was now. “And if I die, it will hardly matter because I would never remain here with all of you. The afterlife isn’t so bad, you know.”
“You’ve seen it?” Tilly’s eyes bulged so wide that Signa feared they might burst from her skull. If that was a possibility with spirits, she had no desire to find out.
“Only the entrance, but it’s beautiful.” Signa had grown used to keeping her voice low for the spirits, but she glanced cautiously around all the same before she added, “Unless you want to see it tonight, I need you all to be on your best behavior.”
They only rolled their eyes. Had it not been for the fact that this was likely the twentieth time Signa had warned them to behave—as well as the fact that she still needed to get dressed for the evening—she might have lingered to ensure they were planning to listen.
As it was, Amity was waiting as Signa hurried up the stairs. The spirit hovered over Signa’s bed, where a gilded gown was spread across the mattress. Signa ran her hand along the gold fabric, her fingertips buzzing.
Back at Thorn Grove she had worn a crimson dress as bold as blood to conquer Death. And now at Foxglove—to conquer Fate and put an end to this mess with Elijah once and for all—it only made sense that she wore a burnished gold befitting the royalty he played.
Elaine didn’t linger after fastening her into the gown, instead heading out to check that everything was prepared for the guests’ arrival and giving Signa time to inspect herself. The gown hugged her body tight, sweeping up
to ensnare her throat with the most luxurious collar. It was heavier than she was used to, embroidered with gorgeous floral detailing along the bodice and bustle. Her hair was pulled back to show off as much of the dress as possible, pinned in loose waves.
Signa may have told Tilly that it didn’t matter what she wore, but that was a lie. In this dress, she felt powerful enough to best Fate. So much so that she smiled back at her reflection, a warm calm settling upon her.
“You look beautiful.” Amity hadn’t so much as blinked while Signa readied herself, though she’d covered her mouth the moment Signa slid the dress over her skin. “You and your mother could have been twins.”
Signa smoothed the collar into position. She was used to hearing such things from the few people who had known her mother, though she still savored the words, tucking them away for safekeeping. She’d been thinking about her parents a lot these days and couldn’t help when the question slipped out: “Amity… I know the constable never found who killed them, but you were there. Do you know what happened to them the night they died?”
Shadows darkened her face, and for the first time since meeting Amity, fear struck a chord deep within Signa’s chest. She’d gotten so comfortable that she’d become lax with her words, but as lively as Amity may have been, she was still a spirit. And if there was one thing spirits hated, it was being reminded of their own demise.
In that moment, Amity was like one of Fate’s marionettes, hunched and lifeless in the eyes. Signa could only watch, one hand on her doorknob, as a range of emotions flashed through her in quick bursts before freezing upon a deep, festering rage that lasted only seconds before Amity’s face smoothed suddenly. She frowned.
“Some things are better left unspoken, Signa.” The spirit’s voice rang as soft as snowfall, speaking as though nothing had happened. “And some mysteries are better left unsolved. We should be going, now. Your guests are due to arrive any minute.”
“Of course.” Fearing that one wrong move would break Amity, Signa quickly altered course. “Though there’s one last thing I need to do before I venture down to see them. Would you be able to show me where my parents’ room is?”
Only then did the deep furrow and sharp planes of the spirit’s face
soften. “It would be my pleasure.”
 |
Stepping into Rima and Edward Farrow’s room felt like slipping into the past. While the rest of Foxglove had been scrubbed and polished to perfection, the bedroom remained untouched, layers of dust that caked the floor and baseboards the only sign that time had passed since they’d last set foot inside.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” Amity whispered before she slipped out, leaving Signa to this moment—the final room she’d yet to explore.
She’d banned the staff until she could bring herself to see it exactly as it had been the night that the Farrows had left this earth. If she had all the time in the world, she might never step inside. But Signa refused to allow anyone else the chance to enter this room before she did, and now that Foxglove was filling with people, she didn’t dare take that risk.
She took her first step past the threshold, the weight of a thousand questions heavy upon her chest as she forced herself forward. Her parents’ bed was made, each corner tucked and smooth. There were still ashes in the fireplace and bottles of perfume on a vanity. Signa walked to them and lifted one of the elegant bottles to her nose. The smell was so foul that it had Signa tearing up at the first scent of soured amber and notes of something probably meant to be floral that she could no longer decipher. She wondered what it had smelled like twenty years ago when it had been new. She would have given anything to know what her mother had smelled like, and to spritz herself with that same scent to sit in the ghost of an imagined memory.
It was an effort to peel herself away and move to the wardrobe next, riffling through silk fabrics and taffeta gowns embellished with great flare. Signa let her fingertips slide across them, wishing she had the time to try them on. They were the colors she loved—plummy purples, navy as rich as freshly poured ink, and even a brilliant sage green—all without a hint of frill. She lifted the green satin gown, brushing away the corpse of a moth. Several more lay motionless at the bottom of the wardrobe. They had
chewed holes in several of the gowns, though it seemed most were still salvageable. She shut the wardrobe, then shifted her attention to an ornate ivory jewelry box sitting upon a chest of drawers. The contents had Signa gasping—hefty gemstones fastened into rings, and diamond necklaces so dazzling that Signa was left with no choice but to fasten one upon her neck. There was a smaller one, too. A thin golden chain inlaid with an amethyst.
A necklace for a child, Signa realized. Her necklace. It was a wonder they hadn’t been looted. Signa supposed she must have had the spirits to thank for that.
“Your taste was impeccable, Mother,” she whispered to the room, skimming a finger across one of the diamonds before returning it to the safety of the jewelry box. There was so much more to investigate, though for now Signa shut the lid and let her eyes fall to a snuff box nearby. There was nothing in it but a mother-of-pearl inlay, nor did it look like it had seen much use. It was carved of solid horn and had her father’s initials engraved into the bottom. She smiled as she examined it, realizing that her father’s fondness for beautiful, curious things extended well beyond architecture.
It seemed she had her mother’s sense of style, and her father’s taste for the obscure. She held the snuff box against her chest, feeling close to them for the first time. If she shut her eyes and let herself believe, she imagined her mother coming in to scold Signa for wearing her jewelry without permission while her father explained all the details she’d never thought to learn about a simple snuff box.
One day she would see them again. One day she would learn what sort of people they truly were. Until then, she had Foxglove to fill in the gaps. Though it had been difficult—for things were new and strange and far from perfect—Signa hadn’t the slightest doubt that this was where she was meant to spend the rest of her life.
She set down the snuff box and moved to the sitting room. It was filled with journals that, just as Amity had promised, contained her father’s drawings. She thumbed through the original designs for Foxglove, then of the garden. Some were done in a strange, scratchy style similar to the portraits throughout the manor, and her chest warmed at the realization that they’d all been done by his hand. There were sketches of Rima, too, and one of them with Signa as a baby curled in her mother’s arms.
Signa stared at it for a long while, convinced that her heart had stopped.
She’d never seen anything with them together. There were probably more portraits, somewhere. Perhaps one with all three of them.
She leaned against the desk, leafing through sketches when the music of the ballroom swelled from above. There were voices, too. Guests making their way inside, likely searching for a host who wasn’t there to greet them.
Signa was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn’t notice the bitter cold leaching into the room. Only when she heard his stirring did she turn to see that Death stood behind her in his human form. Her fingers slipped from the sketchbook, and when she turned to him fully, it was with tears in her eyes.
“Are you all right?” His voice wasn’t in her head. It was spoken aloud, and that was enough for Signa’s tears to come faster. Her body ached to run to him, and this time she did not hesitate to give in to that desire. Death went still as she locked her arms around his waist and pressed in.
“Signa…”
“I’m tired of goodbyes.” Signa burrowed her face into his chest. “I won’t say another one. We have to put an end to this. We need to stop—” She snapped her mouth shut with sudden realization.
It wasn’t unheard of for Death to appear. Large crowds were one of the best chances she had to see him, and tonight she’d not only invited the entire town but also guests from Celadon.
Tonight she had invited almost every single person in this world that she cared for.
Signa drew back, ice in her veins. She held on to the edge of the nightstand, her stomach sick. “Who is it? Who are you here for?”
Death took her gloved hand tight. Not lovingly, Signa realized, but to steady her as he answered, “I’ve come for Eliza Wakefield.”
