“Ah, that’s better. I’m glad to see you’re learning.” He was before her then, shadows reaching toward her. Reaching… A hand? Signa had never seen anything remotely human about Death, but it was indeed a hand swathed in shadows. A hand that hesitated in the air for a moment before his fingers curled around hers. Life around them stilled, taking a breath.
And the world exhaled again as Death pulled her into the garden.
THIRTEEN
THE GARDEN WAS NOT SO DEAD AS SIGNA HAD EXPECTED.
The first thing she heard upon entering was the quiet rushing of water, joined by a choir of croaking frogs. The soil was rich and ripe for autumn, bearing an abundance of wolfsbane, fragrant orange and red chrysanthemums, pansies with a deep purple that bled into their yellow petals, blooming witch hazel, and dozens of striking plants she’d never before seen. Across from them were rows of browning, unharvested herbs and, farther back, bushes of nightshade. Though untended, the garden didn’t feel unkept like Aunt Magda’s. Aglow in the setting sun, this garden felt alive and wild with magic.
Signa tried to imagine what it might look like during a warm summer day, the way Lillian would have enjoyed it with birds singing and the soft buzz of insects as she lay out in the grass, sunbathing. Or perhaps having a picnic.
Lillian, Lillian, Lillian. The name buzzed through the air as if the garden were paving the way to her, ushering Signa forward.
“Was it a peaceful death?” It was similar to the question Signa had asked Sylas. This time, however, she went right to the source.
Death lingered beside her, and tension prickled the air. “Despite what you seem to think of me, I’m no monster. Though pain cannot always be avoided, I try to make death peaceful when I can. I cannot take everyone at their happiest state, but I do try.”
To her surprise, she found that she believed him. “Then what about Lillian?”
“I don’t remember every life, Little Bird, for there are far too many, and I cannot tell you much. What I do know is that this was her favorite place in the world, and that she’s buried in the back, near the pond. Shall I take you to her?”
Signa shivered. “Please do.”
Death led Signa through the garden as though he’d traveled there a hundred times before. As she followed, she wondered how long Lillian had been sick. How many times had she been so close to Death’s door that he’d sat in this garden with her, waiting to see if she’d finally call to him?
Though green with algae, the pond buzzed with life. It was a gentle place, with fallen maple leaves and lilies sprouting outside the bank. Tiny brown frogs burrowed themselves in the damp soil or hid between the pebbles lining it. In the water were tiny minnows, and facing the pond were two oak benches, both overtaken by damp moss. Behind the benches, tucked toward the back, was the grave littered with a decayed bouquet and more moss.
“Be careful when you speak with Lillian.” Death’s voice had lost all hint of amusement. “It takes spirits a great deal of energy, so they won’t often communicate with the living. If a spirit is angry enough, though, it might try to possess you.”
Never before had Signa even known that was possible. Then again, she’d never met such a malevolent spirit as Lillian. She had to gather herself, taking a few heartbeats before she closed the space between herself and the grave. On her way to it, she plucked one of the lilies from its stem and gingerly placed it next to the withered bouquet.
“You told me to come,” Signa whispered, patting a hand to the soil. “Here I am, Lillian. Come and tell me what you want.”
Her heart seized as the cold flooded her skin like a thousand needles stabbing into her. Bile burned her throat.
When she looked up, Lillian was floating over the water’s edge.
No longer was her mouth a gaping black hole; her lips were full now, and shaped like a heart. It was covered in blisters and sores, and Signa was certain the woman’s tongue would still be a pulpy mass of rotted flesh should she attempt to speak, but ultimately, she looked more human.
Assuming humans could glow bluish-white and hover above the ground.
Death stepped forward, offering the spirit his hand, but she drew away from his touch as though it were poison, resisting his call. His offer of an afterlife.
“You can’t just take her?” Signa asked, and Death stiffened, as though the suggestion alone was disgraceful.
“I won’t do such a thing against her will. She’ll come when she’s ready.” He bowed his head, and with that retreated into his shadows.
When it was just the two of them, Lillian’s lips curled into a thin smile. But her lips were too cracked and raw to handle the movement, and one of the sores opened, oozing a trail of black blood down her chin. If the spirit noticed, she didn’t care.
Signa was glad that none of the Hawthornes were able to see Lillian like this. Everything about her was a reminder that the dead did not belong in the world of the living. Lillian would terrify even those who loved her most.
“Lillian,” Signa whispered. If the spirit wasn’t able to use words, they’d need to keep this simple. “Do you realize that you’re dead?”
From her experience, many spirits never acknowledged that fact and went on acting as though they were still alive. Yet to her surprise, Lillian nodded.
Good. This was a good start. “The doctors said it was an illness. Were you sick for long?”
The spirit’s face contorted, a dark shift in her demeanor. She floated to her grave and stooped to the ivy coating the ground, taking a piece of it in both hands. Glancing up at Signa beneath iridescent lashes, Lillian didn’t so much as blink as she tore it to shreds, until the muscles of Signa’s throat tightened.
“Death,” Signa called, though she never took her eyes away from Lillian. “Do you know how Lillian died? Did you see the illness?”
He took shape, leaning against a tree, and responded with a tone that betrayed nothing. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything more than she does.”
Some help he was. She groaned, trying to soothe her racing heart as Lillian kept tearing at the ivy, then jerked to a sudden halt at the sight of a pebble near her grave. Lillian grabbed for it, and with trembling hands carved a single word into the dirt, the script so messy it was barely legible: kill.
So reassuring was the word that it took every ounce of determination Signa had to keep herself grounded even when her mind urged her to run. “Did you… kill someone?” she asked, to which Lillian scowled. The spirit pointed to the sores on her lips, then to herself, and Signa gasped when the realization struck.
If Lillian was saying what Signa thought she was… the situation was going to change too much and be far more complicated than Signa wanted anything to do with. Part of her ached to turn and escape now, before they went any further. Before she learned a secret she didn’t care to learn.
But Signa couldn’t draw away. Couldn’t get her feet to move even if she wanted them to. So rather than flee, she forced herself to ask, “Lillian, are you trying to tell me that you were killed?”
Tossing the pebble, Lillian spun to Signa with a fervent nod. At once, Signa began to piece it together. The sudden death, the failed doctor visits, the angry spirit, and now…