Elijah’s office at Grey’s was similar to the one he had set up in Thorn Grove. A large mahogany desk and plush chair sat in the center, atop a rug of a burnished red. Someone had designed the room to have the air of masculinity, with a leather couch that sat in front of bookcases that took up a whole wall. Though Elijah had allegedly not been to the office in some time, there wasn’t so much as a speck of dust upon the shelves, and the black leather ledgers were organized neatly on his desk.
Upon first glance, one would think everything about the office standard. But something urged Signa to look deeper, just as Sylas appeared inclined to do as he threw himself into the seat behind the desk and tried the top drawer. It didn’t budge.
“Think you can manage to open it?” Signa asked, recalling how easily he’d unlatched the door to Grey’s.
“I can try. These are fickler things, though. Harder to mask that you’ve been toying with it. Which is why—” He stood and crossed to the bookcase, inspecting the spines of old leather books and various knickknacks. He even shifted furniture around until, hidden beneath a lamp, he discovered an ornate silver key. “I would prefer to find one of these.” Had his head not already been so inflated, Signa might have admitted she was impressed. He certainly waited for the praise and scoffed when she only nodded for him to open the drawer.
The contents were far less exciting than she had hoped. Old bills for imported alcohol and cigars were scattered throughout the drawer, as were letters left from patrons. To the ineffable Mr. Elijah Hawthorne, one writer began, spewing nonsense for two pages about how pleased he was to have the opportunity to seek membership at Grey’s, and how much he valued the qualities of a gentleman. Elijah must have kept the letter for his own amusement. There were more just like it, perhaps a dozen or so, each of them as indulgent as the next, written in the hope of getting into Elijah’s good graces and claiming a membership.
She set the letters aside and began to riffle through the drawer once more, until she drew out a handful of photographs.
Sylas gave a hiss of protest. “Careful. We are merely ghosts passing through. We must leave no marks.”
Signa ignored him. Elijah was now a shell of the man he’d been in the photographs of him and his family. Though only a moment captured in time, his laughter in the first picture in the stack was infectious. He beamed bright as a star, arm wound around the waist of a beautiful woman. She was sunlight incarnate, radiant, with flaxen-blond waves that cascaded down to her waist.
Lillian. She looked far from the haunted spirit that Signa knew—not yet a woman tormented by her death and helpless to change her daughter’s fate.
Standing before them were two children: Percy, perhaps ten years old in the photo, and a young Blythe before him. Blythe looked every bit like her mother, though her expression was more cunning. In the miniature portrait, Lillian had her hand upon Percy’s shoulder as the boy stared at the camera. Percy’s expression was severe, small hands on the lapels of his suit jacket, as if to ensure he looked proper. It seemed not much had changed over the years.
Signa would have liked to steal the photograph to tease him with but didn’t dare risk being found out. She started to put the photo back into the drawer when her thumb brushed across a thin edge on the back of the photo—there was something stuck to it. With the tip of her nail, she eased a slip of parchment from the back of the photograph. It was yellowed with coffee stains, and its dark ink blurred from a liquid spill.
“It’s a letter,” she told Sylas, who loomed over her.
I implore you, Elijah, to think of our son.
No matter what you may feel for Grey’s, it is all he knows.
I understand your relation to that place is fraught, but we must remember that our son is not you. Whatever qualms you have are not to be taken out on the boy. Percy was born to inherit the Hawthorne legacy. It is all he wants, Elijah. Please, do not let your pain—do not let your selfishness—get in his way.
There were more words that had been blurred and stained beyond legibility, but there was no denying it came from Lillian, prior to her death. All along, Signa had been under the impression that Elijah had taken Grey’s away from Percy after his wife’s death. But according to this letter, Elijah had been having qualms about letting Percy inherit Grey’s for far longer.
Another puzzle piece. Another bit of information to tuck away for safekeeping.
Sylas leaned over Signa’s shoulder to read the letter, too close for comfort. “Poor bastard. Seems like Elijah’s serious about running this place into the ground.”
Signa tucked the letter into the back of the photo once more and returned it to the drawer before giving voice to a passing thought. “What could have made him change his mind so suddenly? What could make him want to give up his family’s legacy? I thought it was his way of mourning.”
“That’s what everyone seems to believe.” Sylas glanced out the window at the dark sky. It had to be well past midnight by now. “I don’t think we’ll find anything more tonight, Miss Farrow. We should hurry back, before someone takes notice of your absence.”
Given the party, she doubted anyone would. Still, it was unwise to risk being found sneaking in for the second night in a row. She relented, doing a sweep to ensure everything was in place before she slipped away from the desk.
“Merely ghosts passing through,” Signa said, no longer shy as she looped her arm through the one Sylas offered. His touch had awoken something within her that she had no interest in quelling. A lingering curiosity to experience the touch of a man beneath her fingertips.
It was, as she was discovering, a feeling she quite enjoyed.
TWENTY-ONE
AN HOUR AFTER SYLAS HAD DROPPED HER OFF IN THE TUNNELS, WITH directions to take the first right, the second left, and go straight until she arrived at the pantry, Signa was still wandering alone, her right hand pressed against the wall to guide her. Turn after turn, she was met with darkness and a maze that seemed to shift and ebb beneath her.
Music from Elijah’s party was a distant thrum against the tunnel walls. Signa chased it all the same, clinging to the noise in the darkness. But no matter how far she chased, there was no end in sight. Turn after turn, tunnel after tunnel, the pressure in her chest mounted. It was like the day she arrived at Thorn Grove, when she’d roamed halls that had seemed endless, taunted by portraits of all who had lived there before her time.
Someone or something was toying with her, but knowing that did nothing to ease her shallow breathing. Each of her footsteps grew more desperate, each breath tighter, until she stumbled into yet another dead end.
She smacked the wall in frustration. “Who’s there? I’ve no time for games.”
A voice came from the darkness, low and taunting. “On the contrary, Little Bird, I think you could use more games in your life.”
Signa had never been so relieved to hear that voice. She turned to face him, able to see Death even in the tunnels, for his shadows were darker than the night itself. He loomed larger than usual. “You,” he said without softness, “are late. I hoped you might try to walk through the walls rather than play by the rules of this tunnel, but you are more stubborn than I imagined.”