“Careful,” warned the spirit. “Books are fragile things.”
“Quite well.” Signa leaned against the edge of a shelf, hoping her words were enough to satisfy both Sylas and the spirit. Only when it was clear that this spirit was not volatile like Lillian did her shoulders loosen. It wasn’t malevolent, nor was its death so gruesome as to alter its appearance. “Do you know anything about the spirit that’s rumored to haunt the library?” she asked Sylas.
“Not much. I heard he was a scholar who married into the family and died in one of those chairs. He fell asleep reading and passed away peacefully. Some say he was trying to read every book in the library.”
“The chairs have since been changed, actually,” the spirit noted. “And my name is Thaddeus. Thaddeus Kipling. I’d have read every book in here by now, except they keep bringing more in.”
A spirit tethered to life by its desire to read! So novel was it that Signa almost laughed.
“He seems helpful enough. Not nearly so malicious as I feared,” she noted.
Thaddeus sighed and thanked her, muttering about how everyone was too afraid to visit anymore, though all he ever did was try to help. “Though I suppose fewer interruptions do make for more reading time.”
Again, she had to hold back her laughter. For nineteen years she had avoided spirits, blaming them for her being different and blaming that difference for keeping others away. But she rather liked Thaddeus, and for the first time she didn’t feel remotely afraid in the presence of a spirit. If she’d given more of them a chance, would she have liked others just as well?
“Do you really think any of these books will tell us about poison?” Sylas held the candle up to a book to inspect the spine, effectively steering the conversation away from the spirit she couldn’t blame him for not wanting to discuss. Every time Sylas leaned the candle too close to the book, Thaddeus would suck in a nervous breath and hold it until Sylas eased the flame away again.
“It’s not the poison we need to read more about.” Signa’s eyes skimmed to the spirit, ensuring he was listening. “It’s the antidote. I’m certain something in here must have some mention of it.”
“Arsenic?” Thaddeus guessed, his eyes sparking with interest.
Signa checked that Sylas was occupied reading, then quickly shook her head.
Thaddeus hummed under his breath. “Cyanide? Thallium? Strychnine? Atropine?” He stopped when she very swiftly nodded. “Ah, atropine! Someone’s being poisoned by belladonna, are they? Well, that’s easy, the antidote—ah. It wouldn’t do you any good if I just told you, would it? I suppose you’d like to see the information for yourself. Here.” Thaddeus floated to the next bookcase, then stooped to point at a book from the bottom shelf. It was an unassuming thing; some sort of scholarly journal that Signa likely would never have selected.
“It’s been a while,” Thaddeus said as Signa stooped to pick it up, “but I believe you’ll find what you’re looking for around the hundredth page. Interesting read, that one. Dry but informative. Do take care of it, won’t you?”
Signa thumbed to the hundredth page, then through a few more until she saw the word she was looking for—Atropa. Atropa belladonna. She clutched the book to her chest so fiercely, she thought she might cry. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” she said so loudly that Sylas nearly dropped the book he’d been skimming through.
“You found something already?” He scratched the back of his neck, perplexed. “What luck. I expected we’d be here all night.”
Signa beamed at Thaddeus, whose chest puffed out a little. “I believe I did, though we had some help. Come.” She dragged Sylas to one of the tables and spread the book before them. Even with the candlelight, they had to squint to see the small print. They read several pages of jargon Signa didn’t understand before she found mention of treatments used on patients.
“Here it is!” She pressed a finger to the page and bent forward. Sylas followed suit, trying to peer over her shoulder.
“‘While the plant itself is toxic,’” she read aloud, the words like silk in her mouth, “‘the alkaloid content of the Calabar bean has proven an effective remedy for Atropa belladonna.’”
She grew giddier with each word. She tugged on Sylas’s arm, shaking it as her excitement bloomed. They had a solution. Though Signa hadn’t the faintest idea where she might find the non-native plant, there was at least a possibility now, which was far more than they’d had before.
“Too much of it, and Blythe could die,” Sylas warned her as he read further. “You’re to grind up a small dose of it and administer it in a liquid.”
The only problem was how to get it. They certainly wouldn’t find such a plant in Lillian’s garden, though Signa did remember another possibility.
“There is an apothecary in town! I saw it the night you took me to Grey’s.… Do you think they might have it?”
A grin spread wide across Sylas’s face. “How brilliant you are. An apothecary is likely our best chance.”
It was all Signa needed to hear to shut the book and hug it to her chest again. She felt light enough to dance upon a cloud. She was going to save her. Really, truly this time, Signa was going to save Blythe.
“Thank you,” she whispered, grabbing hold of Sylas’s shoulder and squeezing tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. And thank you, Thaddeus!”
She didn’t look back at the spirit, nor at Sylas as he blew out the candle and whispered, “Thaddeus?” Instead, she clutched the book tight and hurried out the door.
“I’ll go first thing in the morning,” she said to no one in particular as Sylas nodded and shushed her gently. She listened for his sake, but Signa no longer cared who heard her now because everything was going to be fine. No—it would be better than fine. It was to be wonderful because first thing in the morning she would gather the antidote, and Blythe would finally have her life back.
Soon, all would be well again.
TWENTY-FIVE
WHILE ADDING CREAM TO HER CUP OF TEA AT BREAKFAST THE NEXT morning, Signa overheard Warwick telling Elijah that Blythe’s tongue was beginning to fester with the same sores that Lillian’s had in the late stages of her “disease.” Blythe had been sick throughout the night, unable to keep any food or drink down.
Signa gripped her knife tight, trying not to let her frustration draw attention to herself for fear that Elijah might suddenly come to his senses and not allow such a conversation at the breakfast table.
Death’s warning had been fortuitously timed, and now that a cure was known, Signa had only to get her hands on it. But she couldn’t help wondering why Blythe was still so ill. Signa had instructed her not to drink anything but water. Had told her to dump her medicine when no one was watching. Signa had checked Blythe’s room that very morning while her cousin slept; she’d inspected the cold tea and pastry left at her bedside, both of which were fine. But because her tongue was starting to show signs of poison, Signa knew that, somehow, she was still consuming belladonna.
“The doctor doesn’t think it wise for her to have visitors today,” Warwick told Elijah, who was scraping butter across a muffin in an angry manner Signa had not known someone holding a muffin could be capable of. “He and Percy were able to break the fever this morning, though she had a bout of delirium.” Signa was glad, at least, that Percy had been there to supervise the doctor when she couldn’t. She tried to steal his attention across the table to tell him as much, but Percy kept his tired eyes low as he stirred his untouched porridge.