“Despite what you may think, my world isn’t so dark at all.” Death inspected the orbs—souls, Signa realized. Impatient souls; the ones he promised might find him. They lit his cowl, and Signa caught the smallest glimpse of a face beneath his hood of shadows. Just a trace of hair silver as the stars, and a flicker of a smile as he reached his hand out to the souls that flocked to him. Some flocked to Signa, too, spinning around her dress and through her tresses, though they swarmed back to Death when he cleared his throat.
“They’re in need of ferrying,” Death told her. “It’s as I’ve said all along, I am a busy man.” He pulled her through the tunnels with haste until they were in Thorn Grove. With every wall they passed through, Signa stopped worrying some, relaxing into this power she could very well get used to. They were up the stairs and to her room in no time at all.
Too soon, in fact.
I must be on my way, but I’ll be back tomorrow night, for there is more to teach you. He took his time drawing his hand away.
Gravity settled upon her. Her lungs seared, empty fingers burning, as life sank back into her bones. She clutched her throat, the feeling worse than she remembered. “Stay out of my head,” Signa grumbled, though there was little bite behind the command.
Not until you learn how to talk to me. Death laughed, though it was short-lived as the souls gathered closer, doubling, tripling, more demanding than ever. He swatted at them with a hiss.
“Good night, Death.” Signa watched him escape through the window, the souls pushing him out faster than she would have liked.
Good night, Little Bird.
She leaned against her window and stared at his retreating figure until he disappeared with the night. Only then, curled up in her bed and ruminating over the night’s events, did she realize that she couldn’t remember ever feeling less alone.
TWENTY-TWO
SIGNA AWOKE BEFORE DAWN—AT AN HOUR WHEN THE SKY WAS still dim and the servants were her only company—and journeyed to the kitchen for an inspection. She pored over the pantries and the tea supply, through the honey and the jams and the flour with fervor, all while the head cook watched her with a grim frown.
“You’ll not find any rats in my kitchen,” the head cook barked. She was an old woman, her face well wrinkled and soft looking, though her eyes were stern. Signa told the woman that she was certain she wouldn’t, adding that one could never be too careful these days. Then she made up some excuse about how she wanted to practice for the day she would run her own estate.
The cook grunted, clearly unenthused about having Signa poking through the entirety of the kitchen with such scrutiny but approving her intention. And so Signa searched, testing and tasting and scouring everything. She found the containers for tea and a small glass of what she presumed must be Blythe’s real medicine, and there wasn’t a hint of belladonna in any of it.
Signa was scowling by the time breakfast rolled around nearly two hours later, and Marjorie told her as much. Not wanting anyone to ask questions, Signa tucked her frustration away for after her lessons, when there’d be more time to think through her next steps. Perhaps Sylas would have an idea, or perhaps he’d found a lead.
She ate under Marjorie’s scrutiny, careful to take small bites when the governess was looking. And when she was done eating, Signa followed Marjorie to the parlor to begin the second half of her morning—the half that still concerned itself with the living, and with the life she was to have once her time at Thorn Grove came to an end.
And in that new life, if Signa was ever meant to take her place in society, she would need to learn how to dance.
“I understand why this lesson is necessary for you,” said Percy, who stood to greet her, straightening his shirt collar so not a single wrinkle marred the fabric. “But why am I here?”
Marjorie took a seat on the piano bench in the corner of the parlor. Her hair was pulled back into a beautiful spiral of curls, and she looked as elegant and proper as Signa had ever seen her in an ivory cotton wrapper. “If she’s to learn properly, Signa will need both music and a partner. And if I am to be the music, I need you to be the partner.”
Signa would have wagered that her directive also had to do with how Percy had taken to meandering around Thorn Grove, sighing and pathetic in his attempts to find something to do. She’d heard him outside earlier that morning, requesting a coach to be readied to drive him to Grey’s, only for a groom to inform him that Elijah had banned him from traveling there, and that they were under strict orders to comply. She hadn’t seen Percy’s reaction, though she’d heard the door he’d slammed behind him.
Signa pitied her cousin. She’d known him for nearly a month now, long enough to realize he was a Hawthorne to his core. A proud, gentlemanly Hawthorne who’d had his legacy torn from his hands.
Percy peered down at her with his fox-like eyes. This close, she noticed that his eyebrows were rather bushy, though they were so pale a red that it appeared from a distance as though he had very little. His eyelashes, too, were pale as snow. “Are you any good at dancing?” Percy asked, to which Signa responded with an indignant, “Are you?” too quietly for Marjorie to hear. His laugh was little more than a puff of breath.
It wasn’t that Signa was a poor dancer, but one without practice—unless the nights she’d spent alone in her room counted, when she’d pretended to dance with a handsome prince who’d sweep her away from her current hovel. Signa hadn’t known any true steps back them. She’d learned them over the past week, when Marjorie had spent hours beating them into what the woman had so kindly referred to as Signa’s “thick, stubborn head.” This would be her first time practicing with a true partner, and she couldn’t deny Percy was the perfect choice. He was made for society, an aristocrat born and bred. He’d likely be able to do any dance backward, should someone request that he do so.
Percy extended a freckled hand, and as Signa took it, the pianoforte came alive with a waltz.
Signa’s gaze dipped immediately to her feet, counting her steps. She could say them silently in her head but felt it better to whisper them as she danced, to ensure she wouldn’t miss any. The concentration stilted her steps so that they were almost mechanical.
“Oh, dear cousin.” Percy snorted. “You dance as though you were made of wires and gears.”
She shushed him so sharply that his neck retracted like a turtle’s. He tripped over the rug and winced when it caused Signa to stumble, stepping on his toes with the heel of her boot. She didn’t apologize as he pulled his foot back with a gasp—it was his fault for interrupting her after all—and continued her counting.
“If you’re going to attempt to court men with those moves, the least you could learn to do is look up so you don’t trample them,” Percy hissed. “Whoever you dance with will be expecting a lady, not a mathematician. Look up.”
Signa lost her count. She jerked her eyes up to him, a sneer ready when she realized that her body was still following the steps.
Percy’s face spread into a victorious grin. “Ah, there we go!” He tightened the grip of one hand and braced the small of her back with the other as he hastened their pace to spin her around the parlor floor.