There was a moment when the only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath the horses’ hooves. Signa twisted to look at him, and when his smoky eyes met hers in the dim moonlight, her mouth went dry.
Everything about this man had grated her nerves when they’d first met. Now, however, things were frustratingly the opposite. Her attention fell to the tunic that was rolled up on his arms, to his broad shoulders, down the deep neckline that revealed a glimpse of his chest.… And then she averted her eyes like the proper young lady she was and pretended he didn’t make her skin hot while simultaneously making her want to pummel him.
Sylas, fortunately, didn’t appear to notice her struggle. “There are rumors about Thorn Grove.” His whisper was as unnerving as the dark forest surrounding them. “Rumors I wanted to tell you the day I picked you up but didn’t know how. Had you anywhere else to go, I might have.” They had to duck beneath branches that clawed at them, and when one threatened to tear at the sleeve of her borrowed cloak, he paused to help her untangle it with deft fingers. The moment she was freed, she swayed forward in the saddle and cleared her throat.
“You were saying?” She could only pray that her skin was not flushed pink.
He frowned a little but continued nevertheless. “I was saying that, at night, the servants claim they can hear a woman crying. Some refuse to wander the halls after dark, for there are whispers of a ghost. A blond woman in a white dress, watching them one moment and gone the next. And Master Hawthorne… He’s the worst off. I think he hears her, too. I think that’s why he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t do much of anything anymore.”
“Other than throw soirees,” Signa added. The most lavish and risqué ones she’d ever heard of.
“To drown out the sound of her cries, I imagine,” Sylas defended. “To keep her at bay, and to forget. I’ve known the Hawthornes for a long while, and I assure you that he was not always like this.”
They knew about Lillian’s spirit, then. They may not have been able to see her, but they knew she was there. Signa’s body sagged against his as she blew out a breath. So relieved was she that, had she the energy, she’d have thrown her arms around Balwin and kissed him between the eyes. Death had told her there were people who could see glimpses behind the veil of the living. While they likely couldn’t see Lillian as she could, they knew they were being haunted. If anyone suspected Signa of seeing Lillian’s spirit, they wouldn’t bat an eye. Luck, it seemed, had finally decided to throw her some favor.
“What about you?” She was becoming far too comfortable slumped against Sylas but could do nothing about it as exhaustion sank into her bones. “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Thorly?”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Miss Farrow. In a place like Thorn Grove, how could I not?”
The words were like fairy music; never had Signa heard anything so sweet. “Then you will understand when I say I was forced out of the estate and into the woods tonight.”
“Whatever your reason, you need to be more careful. You’ve not stopped shivering since I found you.” He adjusted the cloak he’d thrown around her for emphasis. “If it’s discovered that this happened and that I didn’t report it, I’ll lose my job. My loyalty is not to you but to my employer. So if you want me to take that risk, you’re going to have to give me a good reason.”
Signa willed her brain to spin a story so believable and so masterfully told that she’d be able to escape the situation with him none the wiser, but her temples ached and her mouth burned with the desire to just say it. To tell someone else what was going on, so that she didn’t have to do this alone. There was something about Sylas and the way he spoke—so factual and direct—that made Signa feel as though he might believe her. It was for the same reason that, around him, her petals unfurled a little. She’d been able to speak her mind to him without him running away. Not to mention that Sylas had already admitted to believing that Lillian’s spirit was haunting the Hawthorne estate.
The breath she drew was so sharp that Mitra flapped her ears. “If I tell you,” Signa whispered, “you must swear not to tell another soul.”
Sylas, it seemed, was every bit as ruled by his curiosity as Signa. A smile in his voice, he leaned into her and said, “I promise.”
“To anyone? No matter if you think me ridiculous?”
“I already think you’re ridiculous,” he mused before Signa turned and fixed him with a glare. “Fine, yes, I agree to not tell a single soul upon this earth whatever it is that you have to say. Now, are you going to continue with this suspense? Out with it.”
“I wanted to find her grave.”
He stared at her blandly. “Are you fascinated with the macabre, Miss Farrow?”
There was no simple way to word it. Signa did the only thing she could—squared her shoulders, and said, “I have a reason to believe that Lillian didn’t die of natural causes. That she was murdered, and if we don’t find out who did it, Blythe will die, too.”
For a long while, the distant hoot of an owl was her singular response. Signa curled into herself as she listened, expecting as they crossed the moors that Sylas would flee to the nearest doctor and ask for her to be taken away. To her surprise, though, the first thing he asked was, “We?”
Signa brushed her fingers across Balwin’s mane. She hadn’t meant to say it, but now that she had… It was becoming apparent this was a situation greater than anything she could handle on her own. She needed help, and Sylas knew about Thorn Grove. He knew about the Hawthornes and had access to the staff in a way she never would. He could help.
She was spared having to answer until they arrived at the stables. As he helped her off Balwin, she caught Sylas by the hand. He jolted, and for a moment Signa feared that the effects of the belladonna were still potent. That perhaps she still had access to her powers and had stolen his life. But they both wore their gloves, and he was blinking at her with dark, curious eyes.
“I need you to tell me everything you know about the Hawthornes,” she urged, realizing she’d grown louder in her excitement when Sylas leaned forward to quickly press a finger to her lips, the touch intimate enough that her mouth went dry.
“Miss Farrow, I work in the stables.” He looked behind her, ensuring no one was watching as he pulled her inside. “It’s not my place to gossip about those who pay me—”
“I’ve seen your boots, Mr. Thorly. I’ve seen the way you dress, and it’s apparent to anyone who looks at you that you want to be more than a stable boy.” Something in his eyes flashed. Something Signa latched on to and pushed against. “Imagine what could happen if you save Blythe. If you put an end to Lillian’s hauntings and give Elijah peace of mind. If you ever step into the stables after that, it will be to mount your own horse. You’ll never have to work again.”
Sylas undid the horses’ bridles and saddles, and his pinched forehead told her just how much the gears in his head were turning. “Should you be found out and let go for any reason,” she added to sweeten the deal, “I will employ you myself the moment I claim my inheritance. Use your position to help me, Mr. Thorly. Be my confidant, be my ears, and your future will be so much more than working in the stables.”