“Percy—” Marjorie warned him, speeding up the tempo as he surpassed it, pulling Signa along into his shenanigans. His laughter was so light and infectious that Signa found herself joining in, dissolving into a fit of her own as he kicked an ottoman out of their way and twirled her across the rug. They tripped over each other, nearly tumbling to the floor several times but always righting themselves in the end with some dramatic flourish.
“Still full of gears and wires?” she taunted him.
“Oh absolutely,” he shot back. “If not for me, I’m certain you’d still be crawling along the dance floor, counting from one to three.”
Signa stepped purposefully upon his toes.
So lost in their fun were they, delirious with their quips and laughter, that neither noticed Elijah Hawthorne had stepped into the parlor until Marjorie stood and the music came to a sudden halt.
Elijah’s eyes were unlike Percy’s. They were the blue of forget-me-nots, their spark hollowed out and concealed beneath shadows. Yet when he looked at his son and heard the young man’s laugh, a light shone from behind that dark shroud. A break in the storm.
Elijah opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by his butler, Warwick, who hurried into the room. Footsteps echoed behind him, as did a low thunk-thunk-thunk of something heavy against the mahogany parlor floor. Byron Hawthorne strolled in behind Warwick, shoulders rolled back and a scowl upon his lips. Signa dared a look at Marjorie, who clenched her jaw and gripped the edge of the piano tightly.
“My apologies, Master Hawthorne,” Warwick began. “He insisted—”
“Where are our shipments, Elijah?” Byron demanded, removing his gloves and handing them to Warwick. In his grasp was the same walking stick Signa had seen him use when she’d met him: rosewood, with a brass handle carved into the shape of a bird’s skull. Byron smoothed his thumb over it as he addressed Elijah, scratching a fingernail into its wood. “Grey’s will be out of food before the week’s end. If you don’t want to sign the checks, then sign the deed and be done with this game.”
Elijah held up a hand. He nodded to Percy and whispered, “Go on. Continue.”
Percy drew away from Signa. There was a hunger in his eyes. Determination in the sharpness of his jaw. “Let me fill an order.” His voice didn’t waver. “I have contacts that can expedite it. We’ll have everything no later than Wednesday.”
Elijah ignored him. “I want you to continue.” His eyes landed on Signa with such severity that she felt compelled to obey. She reached out to Percy to take him by the arm, hoping to ease the situation. The last thing she wanted was another cake incident.
But her cousin’s focus was locked on his goal. Percy clenched his fists and took three steps toward his father. “I promise I can take care of it. I know what to order, and I know where to get it. I’ll see to the delivery myself and ensure its quality upon arrival. If you’d only let me try, you’d see—”
“I said continue, boy!” Elijah’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. “Or has your head filled with so much air that you cannot hear me? Have you forgotten that you are dancing with your cousin right now? You have an obligation to her, not to some order slips. Do not ignore her for talk of work.”
They’d gotten a little practice in already, and what Signa wanted more than anything was for Percy to be happy. Seeing how much Grey’s meant to him made her want it for him; her dancing could wait. But before Signa could speak, Marjorie intervened.
“Sir, we were nearly finished,” she said. “Let Percy take care of this matter. Compared to a dance, it’s far more pressing—”
If Signa didn’t know better, she’d think from the chill that tore through the room that Elijah himself were Death. The look he flashed Marjorie rendered the entire room into silence. Signa didn’t dare to so much as breathe until Elijah took a seat in a plush emerald chair and folded one leg over the other.
He didn’t look at his brother again, and Byron instead gave Marjorie a look of warning that had her brushing a hand tenderly against her cheek, as if she was recalling where he’d slapped her.
“You will come to regret these choices of yours, brother.” Byron’s hostility carried across the room. “I thought when Lillian died that you would step up. Yet look at how she pulls you down with her even now, six feet under. That woman will be your death, mark my words. She is not worth this.”
“Had she agreed to be yours, you’d have thought otherwise. Now”—Elijah turned to Percy and Signa—“continue.”
Defeated, Marjorie slumped into her seat as Warwick set one hand upon Byron’s back. Byron shrugged him off, cursing his brother, but he didn’t struggle as he was ushered out of Thorn Grove. With no room left to argue, a scowling Percy took Signa by one arm. She winced as he yanked her back into position, fingers digging into her skin.
Again the music around them swelled, and they danced. This time, neither missed a step.
TWENTY-THREE
SIGNA SLIPPED AWAY LATE THAT AFTERNOON.
Marjorie had been so tense that, after missing countless keys on the piano, she’d ended the dance lesson early. Elijah hadn’t stayed for its entirety; he’d disappeared without a word halfway through one of the dances, with Warwick following behind him. It must have been difficult, Signa thought, to serve someone as volatile as Elijah.
Though she tried to speak with Percy after the lesson, he’d grabbed his gloves from the desk and his top hat from the rack, then disappeared out the door without once stopping to acknowledge her. Signa couldn’t blame him, not really. She’d been an infant when she’d lost her parents, and she hadn’t a single memory of them to miss. Percy was grown and full of memories when he’d lost his. And the worst part of it all was that one of his parents was still alive.
Signa didn’t pry or chase after him but gave Percy his space as she took the stairs, dragging her exhausted legs to the second story and down the dreary hall. Past the gilt-framed portrait of the redheaded man with his whippet and the one of a beaming Lillian that hung across from Blythe’s room. When Signa poked her head in, Blythe arched a fine blond brow but said nothing. She’d grown used to Signa’s frequent visits in the past weeks.
“Evening,” Signa said, keeping herself stoic so as to not reveal her worries over Blythe’s brittle frame. Her cousin shouldn’t still have been ingesting poison—she should have been getting better. And yet Blythe looked like a dried maple leaf, ready to crumble in the first gust of wind.
Blythe’s dinner of roasted chicken and buttered potatoes was on the table beside her bed. Though she wasn’t able to inspect all of Blythe’s meals, Signa checked as many as she could. She bit into the chicken with great care, then the potatoes, and sighed with relief. There was no belladonna in the food, nor was there any in the oolong.
“What happens if the food is poisoned?” Blythe asked with a frown. “Won’t you become just as sick as I am?”
“Not quite.” Signa set down the tea and handed the plate to Blythe. “I recognize the taste. I’ll spit it out before it can affect me.”
Blythe leaned back, placated by the answer. Signa, however, was anything but as she observed her cousin, so thin and frail. Now that Blythe knew to be cautious, Signa had hoped the girl would recover quickly. So used was Signa to her own fast recovery that she had no concept of how long or painful a process recovery was for others. Perhaps it was normal for improvement to come at a snail’s pace.