Blythe’s eyes narrowed, but before she could ensure Signa’s nod meant that promise, there was a knock on the door.
“Miss Hawthorne?” It was Elaine, carrying a tray. Signa met her at the threshold to Blythe’s suite and without asking permission, lifted the porcelain teacup to her lips. She drew a sip, ignoring Elaine’s surprised protest.
“Miss Farrow—”
Signa didn’t wait to hear the rest of that sentence. She set the decidedly poison-free cup down on the tray and said to Blythe, “Enjoy your tea.”
“Remember what I said, cousin!” Blythe’s voice was a faint trill as Signa headed out the door and down the hall, slipping the mask from the box to stare at it as she went.
Soon. She would figure out what she wanted soon. But first, there was a ball to prepare for.
THIRTY-THREE
SIGNA SPENT THE FULL DAY WITH BLYTHE, MEMORIZING THE NAMES of every respectable gentleman and lady who would be in attendance at the Christmas ball. Signa’s head had been swimming by the end of it, but Blythe had seemed in fine spirits when Signa left her early that evening. Signa expected, however, that Blythe would be at her window all night, watching as men and women filtered into Thorn Grove in plush gowns and extravagant masks.
Now Signa stood before her mirror, dusted with powder and rouge, her hair combed and styled so that the dark tresses were pinned at the nape of her neck. The girl who looked back at her was everything she was meant to be—a vision of beauty, poised and elegant.
Her full lips were a deep crimson, and with hair as glossy as a crow’s feather and fair skin that had begun to glow over the past weeks, Signa thought she looked quite pretty. Meals at Thorn Grove had done her well; she’d never known she could have curves, nor had she seen herself with hips or a pleasing softness to her belly. Signa knew she could play her societal role well that night. What she wondered, though, was whether she could make her performance last. Even now, Signa’s body felt too heavy, wrong in its own flesh. She’d never realized how weak she was, either; when not using her powers, she felt like little more than a leaf in the wind. Like the Little Bird that Death called her, pushed and pulled, aimless and susceptible to the will of the breeze.
Signa fought clammy skin and pulsing nerves as she waited for Elaine to bring the dress Marjorie had teased her with all week, refusing to show Signa anything of it but promising it would be a pleasant shade of lilac. She cursed those nerves—she was human. A perfectly normal human who should have no troubles at a ball. A girl who should want to practice for her season so she could step into the next phase of her life.
But the more she thought about it, the more Marjorie’s and Blythe’s warnings crept into her head. What was the purpose of it all? She’d marry, and then she’d… What? Have tea on Tuesdays and Saturdays, and any other blasted day of the week, while catering to the whims of her husband and hosting company? She wanted more than gossip and tea. More than maintaining a house, and ensuring her script was nice and her piano playing tolerable.
What had Death done to her to make her wonder if such a life could be enough?
“Miss Farrow?” A knock came at her door, and Elaine entered carrying a brilliant gown, bold as blood. Signa’s breath escaped her. She fell a step back as the maid set the gown upon her bed, unable to look away.
Signa had never worn such a shade—had never dared be so bold. She brushed her fingers over the smooth fabric. The gown was the loveliest thing she’d ever laid eyes upon, and definitely not the promised shade of lilac. “This is for me?”
“Aye, miss,” Elaine said with a small smile. “We ought to hurry you into it, so you don’t miss any more of the party.”
It was an effort to refrain from tearing off her clothing and being quick to let the woman fasten her corset and help her into the gown. The gown was satin with a bustled skirt and fitted bodice with cinched lacing along the back. It fit like a glove to all the new contours of her body. The color was unfamiliar on her skin, and it made Signa feel as though she’d freshly emerged from a sea of blood. It was so rich a shade and so exquisite that it had no need for loud embroidery to draw the eye.
The gown was somehow made even more divine when Elaine helped Signa don the gilded mask Blythe had gifted to her. “If you’re ready, miss,” the maid said as she looked Signa over with a smile, “Mr. Hawthorne will be your escort.”
Signa hadn’t expected that to mean Percy, but he waited outside her room in a fine black suit and a silver fox mask with a pointed nose. He bowed upon seeing her, offering a genuine smile.
“It’s a shame that you’ve been locked away for so long.” He held out his arm. “Come, cousin. Let us show society whom they’ve been missing.”
The lead in Signa’s stomach weighed something fierce, but she took Percy’s arm and rolled her shoulders back. Together they descended the stairs.
Musicians played in the ballroom below, the cry of the violins and a piano welcoming her into a room so beautiful that she believed herself to be in a dream. It certainly smelled like one, with the scent of roasted chestnuts and perfumed bodies sweetening the air. The paneled walls were gilded, and the grand ballroom had a marble floor and matching pillars that reflected the crystal chandelier above their heads, casting a buttery haze over the room. Evergreen garlands were strung along the walls, and holly wreaths adorned the pillars.
Well-dressed strangers twirled about in masks of lace and jewels, plucking plum pudding and bubbling champagne from silver platters offered by servants in trim black suits and tidy white gloves.
Signa felt Percy stiffen as his father approached. Elijah Hawthorne was almost unrecognizable, his shoulders squared and his chin proudly lifted. His face was clean-shaven and exquisitely handsome, his blond hair styled neatly. He wore a mask adorned with holly crafted to look as though the tips of the green leaves were frosted over. In one hand was a glass with no bubbles, nor any of the amber spirits Signa might have expected. It seemed that he was drinking… water. In this state, Signa could see the bachelor who had once been known to steal the hearts of many. She could see the man behind the sorrow, and he was lovely.
“Marvelous, isn’t it?” Elijah asked.
“Marvelous.” Percy’s voice held a bitter edge.
“It’s nice to see you cleaned up, son. And you—” Elijah took hold of Signa’s hand and gave her a twirl. “Absolutely radiant. You look so much like your mother dressed up like this.”
Mid-turn, Signa froze. “I do?”
“Oh yes. A true firecracker, that one. There was nothing she hated more than people, and nothing she loved more than attention. A true conundrum.”
Signa pressed a hand to her throat, searching for the words to voice a question that had lingered on her tongue for too long. “How did my mother favor society and all its rules?” Guilt weighed upon her the moment the words were out, for asking the question aloud felt like denying each and every one of the stories her grandmother had told her.
All her life, Signa had imagined her mother in a particular way that she struggled to emulate. But from the way others spoke of Rima, Signa’s mind couldn’t help but to wonder. To question.
“Rima was like the sun.” Elijah spoke with great conviction. “All wanted to be near her. But those who ventured too close? They would burn. Rima did what she wanted without apology, and she was beautiful for it. I’m sorry you never got the chance to know her, Signa. If it means anything, Blythe sometimes reminds me of her.”