Signa knew full well that the wind had nothing to do with the sound, though she had no choice but to nod. She sat, fighting the urge to make herself small in her seat as Marjorie straightened her back and lengthened her neck, placing Signa’s hands at the starting position upon the keys.
“Now,” Marjorie said, “let’s begin by practicing your scales.” Signa’s bones protested holding such a stiff posture, already aching. But if this was what it took to bring her vision to life and secure her place in society, she would do it. Signa pressed down upon the first key and had to swallow a grimace when her finger came away wet. Every inch of her stiffened, muscles coiling tight, for there was nothing on the piano. Yet when she lifted her finger, she saw mud caked upon it, and tiny worms sprouting from between the keys.
“Your scales, Signa,” Marjorie urged without any acknowledgment that she could see what was happening beneath her pupil’s fingertips. She didn’t see that Signa’s feet were sinking in dirt that wasn’t there or that her fingers became a perch for the worms to curl themselves around.
Lillian’s message was clear as the day—Signa needed to hurry and find the garden, or this spirit would never rest.
But until then, Signa steeled herself and pressed down upon the muddied keys. She refused to stop playing.
TEN
IT WAS HOURS BEFORE SIGNA MADE HER WAY OUTSIDE, STRETCHING her aching back as the wind lashed at her. The air was crisp, but it was nothing her scarf and a belly full of warm tea couldn’t fend off. Her body welcomed the chill after spending so long at her lessons.
In only a day, she’d nearly forgotten the stark contrast between the estate’s interior and exterior. Here, surrounded by endless moors of yellowing grass, wildflowers pocking the earth, and the golden blanket of leaves scattered along the ground, was a place of fantasy. The afternoon was peaceful; no bodies danced in or out of the house. No strangers in their finery. Though Signa knew not what the cooks were baking, something sweet and doughy warmed the air around her, and her stomach roared despite Marjorie having fed her more scones than she’d been able to eat.
But there would be time for sweets later, when her hands weren’t muddied with dirt and worms and earth not truly there.
Come to my garden and save her.
Signa would go to that garden, but she needed to find it first.
Behind the estate were steep, endless moors. Before it, manicured hedges and a grove of maple trees. And far beyond Thorn Grove was a line of trees that marked the start of the woods. Not one garden in sight.
Signa might have believed she was being toyed with if not for her conversation with Sylas two days prior—he’d told her he’d once worked in the garden with Lillian. Though Signa despised the idea of asking him for help, he was the safest option. With the class difference between them as stark as it was, surely he wouldn’t dare report her for sticking her nose where it didn’t belong.
And so Signa hiked up her hideous yellow dress and made her way across the trimmed lawn to the stables, her grip on her skirts tightening as she approached snorting beasts and stomping hooves. The horses of Thorn Grove were massive creatures, all with glossy coats in a spectrum of colors—solid black, pure white, a rich chestnut brown. They seemed comfortable in their roomy stalls, but Signa had little trust in the wooden barriers confining them. If these beasts wanted out, they were clever enough to free themselves.
Signa peeked into stalls as she tiptoed through the stables, surrounded by horses that stretched their necks toward her in an attempt to win her attention. One of them went as far as to nip at her shoulder, and Signa reeled back to bop it firmly on the nose. “There will be none of that!” she admonished, smoothing out the shoulder of her dress. “Being handsy with a woman is no way to get her attention.”
The horse snorted, indignant. He was smaller than the others, though appeared no younger. Where the others’ coats gleamed, his was a dull brown, the color of burnt caramel. Compared with the others, this one was lanky and odd. “Well now,” she said, hands on her hips as she watched it, “aren’t you a silly thing?”
In response, the horse stretched its neck to nip at her shoulder once more. She was mid-step, stumbling back to tear the fabric from the horse’s mouth, when someone laughed. It was a rich sound, one that sent tiny shivers up Signa’s spine. She recognized it instantly.
Signa whirled around, not having heard Sylas approach. He was as alarmingly tall as ever, and his dark hair was slicked back now, showcasing the beautiful contours of his face. Despite the cool autumn air, Sylas wore only trousers and a long-sleeved cotton tunic. It was open at the collar, sleeves rolled up over strong arms as though he’d been working, though his boots and dark gloves had hardly a speck of dirt on them. They were of so fine a leather—and so well maintained for a stable boy.
Sylas leaned his forearms against a stack of hay bales. At his side, a large gray hound sat alert, ears erect and head tilted.
“I didn’t know the Hawthornes had a dog,” Signa said for lack of anything else, hating that her tongue felt hopeless and numb around this young man. Rude as he could be, the lack of any available male company in her age range… ever… made Signa more tongue-tied than she cared to admit.
“Oh yes,” Sylas said. “He’s a beastly thing, too. Trained to kill anyone who trespasses onto the estate.”
Signa drew a nervous step back. But the moment she did, the hound’s tongue lolled out, and the dog flipped happily onto its back. Signa glanced at Sylas.
“I said he’d been trained,” Sylas said. “Not that he listened. And he belongs to me, not the Hawthornes. His name’s Gundry.”
Signa stooped, scratching Gundry’s offered belly. She laughed as the hound panted and twisted to lick her hand. Signa had always wanted a pet—any creature would do, really. She’d dreamed of having a cat, or a hound. Even a rat would have sufficed, so long as it kept her company. But considering how often she moved, she’d been too afraid to ask for one for fear that something might happen to it—or that one of her guardians would refuse to let her take a pet with her to a new home. She’d never given much consideration to a horse given the animal’s sheer size, though she supposed one would be an equally wonderful companion.
“Do you ride, Miss Farrow?” Sylas’s voice was cool as the breeze around them, teasing her as she swatted the pesky horse away from her hair. “You seem like a natural.”
“Ah yes, I’d nearly forgotten how astounding your manners are.” Signa smoothed a hand over her hair to ensure it was secure in its fastenings. “It’s been a long while since I’ve been around horses. My late uncle had a few, but they were sold when he passed, and he was never keen on me riding them. Though his weren’t quite so large.”
“Riding was a passion the two masters shared.” Sylas crossed to the horse toying with Signa and pressed a flat hand upon its snout. It settled at once, exhaling a contented breath. “Master Hawthorne rarely comes to see them now, but he is the one responsible for these horses. He’s always loved beautiful things.”
Signa took one look at the pesky, smallest horse, and Sylas laughed. “That creature is Balwin, beautiful in his own right. It’s said he charmed Lillian back in the day—they bought him from an inn they visited during a summer holiday. He’s an entertaining enough horse but flighty. Has a mind of his own.”