The shaking ceased, and daylight streamed back into the parlor as Death retreated to his shadows. “Our lessons begin at midnight. I’ll see you then.”
She was about to yell that he shouldn’t bother. But the moment she opened her mouth to speak, a scone flew from the table and into her mouth, choking off the protest Death refused to hear.
SEVENTEEN
BALANCED ATOP SIGNA’S HEAD WAS A BOOK SO HEAVY IT WAS GIVING her a migraine.
“Balance, Signa,” Marjorie instructed her. “Grace. Walk with grace.”
From the corner, lounging comfortably upon a green velvet settee, Percy laughed. Given that he had no business being there, Marjorie flashed him a look, but Percy was far from vexed. He’d made it a point to announce that he’d come simply to watch his cousin attempt to learn manners—and that he was taking a great deal of amusement in those attempts. There was, however, something troubled about the furrow of his red brows, and the way his eyes flickered to the maids who rushed about the halls to set up for the party that would begin that evening.
He and Marjorie pretended not to notice them, so Signa followed suit, understanding why the party might be a sore spot for Percy.
“Grace, Signa,” Percy repeated, drawing the word out with an overly airy tone. Signa never had a brother but imagined that if she did, he’d be every bit as annoying as Percy. It was almost as though he knew her politeness was a charade. Like he could see it in her face and was trying to pluck the truth out of her. She did everything in her power to ignore him, hoping to maintain the illusion that she was a respectable young woman.
Though after her run-in with Elijah the night prior, it seemed unlikely the master of Thorn Grove would care what she did or how she behaved. Assuming she didn’t burn the manor to the ground, she doubted he’d bat an eye at her strange behaviors.
She was reminded of how Percy had waited atop the stairs observing his father with such longing. It was such a different version of him than she saw now—a relaxed Percy who kept a careless manner, a proper young gentleman without any troubles.
What had Elijah meant when he’d said he’d failed his son too many times? Signa was so distracted by her deluge of thoughts that she tripped over the Persian rug and watched the encyclopedia tumble from her head to the floor. Under her breath, she cursed, not realizing she’d said the word aloud until Percy doubled over with laughter and Marjorie threw her hands up in frustration.
“Language, Signa! I swear, you both are impossible today!”
Though Signa had the sense to blush and bow her head with an apology, Percy smiled coolly at the governess, far too charming for his own good. Signa fought the urge to roll her eyes as Marjorie’s resolve crumbled beneath the boy’s grin. The governess sighed and scooped the book from the floor.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, Signa, but you are helpless.” The comment was simply a fact, not meant to be unkind. “And you, Percy. I thought I told you yesterday to find something useful to do with your time.”
He folded his hands behind him, chin proud. “Apologies, Miss Hargreaves. I just wanted to assure myself that my dear cousin felt welcome here.”
The longer Marjorie glared at Percy, the more her eyes softened until, eventually, she relented. “Oh fine. Since it’s obvious we’ll get no further in our lessons, you may pay a visit to your cousin’s room, Signa.”
Percy perked up. “You’re going to visit Blythe? Shall I join you?”
“Of course you should,” Marjorie decided for them both. “Take some pastries from breakfast up to her. I’m sure that’ll make her happy.”
Signa prayed that Marjorie was right. She was going to need a peace offering after the way her first visit with Blythe had gone.
Percy matched Signa’s pace, as eager to see his sister as she was. “If she’s sick with the same illness that took my mother, the last thing she needs is to be holed away in her room,” he said as they made their way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Everyone keeps telling her to rest. I’m sure she’s bored senseless.”
Signa didn’t have to imagine the boredom or the loneliness it brought. If this visit went well, perhaps Blythe would allow her to visit more often.
“Did she and your mother both have the same symptoms?” Signa kept her voice low.
“Exactly the same, yes. Though Blythe’s tongue hasn’t yet begun to fester with sores, and her hallucinations are milder than my mother’s were.” Percy’s tone had slipped to something colder, something pained, and Signa knew better than to press no matter how much she wanted to. It was a testament to her growth, she thought, that she was able to be sympathetic to the fact not everyone was as comfortable speaking about the dead as she was.
She listened while Percy shifted topics to rambling on about the portraits they passed, pointing out the male ancestors who had been in charge of Thorn Grove prior to his father. His chest was proud as he spoke, shoulders squared and confident. “What amazing men they were, to build such an empire.”
Signa didn’t think it was worth noting that a gentleman’s club offered nothing different from the tea she’d had with the ladies that morning with its drinks, food, and gossip with people of a similar social status—only she hadn’t paid a membership fee to participate. Regardless, she understood the pride in Percy’s eyes. Grey’s had done the Hawthornes well, and he was meant to continue that legacy.
After passing what must have been a dozen portraits of scowling men in suits, they knocked quietly upon Blythe’s door and waited for permission to enter. Nothing in Blythe’s sitting room had moved so much as a hair. The air was heady, pressing upon the two as they stepped inside and onto the plush rug. Though Blythe lived, her room was that of a ghost’s.
A budding pressure in Signa’s chest eased when she saw Blythe sitting upright in her bed, leaning against the headboard. Sick as the girl was, Blythe didn’t scowl at Signa as she had last time. Rather, she looked to her brother and beamed.
“Percy! Where have you been? I’ve nearly begun to count the threads of the curtains, I’ve been so bored. What’s that you’ve got there?”
Her grin stretched when he waved a scone at her, and she whipped out her hand to take it. “God, I’ve been waiting for them to make the lemon ones again.” She bit into it and groaned as though it was the first thing she’d eaten all week.
Percy set the remaining pastries down and ruffled Blythe’s straw-blond hair before pulling up a small iron chair to sit beside her. “I’ll tell the kitchen to make them more often if you like them so much.”
Signa waited at the threshold of Blythe’s room, hands folded before her. She lingered there as Percy settled in, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he looked his sister over—her pale, bony frame. Dead, dry hair. The bags under her eyes, and lips that were as pale as the crumbs she brushed from them. Percy took hold of her hand, so fragile a thing, and Signa noticed for the first time the starkness between them. Where Percy was freckled, Blythe was porcelain. Where his hair burned like a summer fire, hers was void of color. What they shared was the sternness of their father’s mouth and the grim way their eyes squinted at the corners, like they were either always contemplating, as in Percy’s case, or perpetually annoyed, in Blythe’s. As different as they looked, when side by side there was no denying they were of shared blood.