“My God. I had no idea a woman could sweat so profusely.”
If Signa truly were a witch, she might have boiled Sylas alive. “I wouldn’t be sweating if you hadn’t decided to run ahead without me, sir.”
At this, Sylas scoffed. A foul, repulsive sound. “I should have known you weren’t listening to me. Had you not allowed yourself to fall prey to distraction, you’d have heard me say that I was going ahead to ensure that our compartment was in order.”
Signa bit her tongue. Now that he had reminded her, yes, she did recall that Sylas might have said something, and that yes, she had nodded. Still, he should have been louder.
Choosing not to respond, Signa set about storing her luggage in the overhead bin. Heavy as the chest was, her arms trembled as she tried to lift it above her head. She was grateful for an excuse to keep her back to Sylas, but she couldn’t quite manage the maneuver. Her muscles seared, and after several solid minutes of pushing through and ignoring the aching, they eventually gave out on her entirely.
Signa stumbled back, momentarily convinced she would soon be paying Death another visit after being crushed by the travel chest. But before she could fall, Sylas was on his feet, bracing her from behind. From head to toe, Signa flushed as his chest pressed against her back. She’d never been so close to a man.
Sylas didn’t appear to share her surprise. While she was still focused on the firmness of his chest, he stepped to the side and took the luggage from her, placing it in the overhead bin. “Why would you choose to carry something so heavy?” he asked. “Had I not been here, that chest might have fallen upon your face. What would you have done then?”
“I suppose I would have been faceless,” she answered, indignant. “And again, I wouldn’t have needed to carry it if I hadn’t had to race to keep up with you. I feared you’d left me.”
Sylas threw himself into his seat with a snort, legs insufferably outstretched. “You should have told me you walk so slowly. I might have thought to carry you, had I known.”
She took her seat across from him, wondering if his unbearable personality was some sort of test for her patience. Holding her knees together so that they wouldn’t bump his, she flashed a razor-thin smile at her escort and asked, “Would you mind sitting a bit straighter, Mr. Thorly?”
Sylas peered down at himself. “Am I sitting oddly?”
Good God, she would need strength to deal with this man. With the toe of her gray boot, Signa tapped one of his knees, then the other—they were too far apart. “You’re sitting like you’re the only one in this compartment.”
His blink was slow, and though Signa knew he understood, he didn’t right himself or apologize. Sylas only laughed and shut his eyes, as if he intended to take a nap. “You’re certainly forward.”
She’d tried her hardest to have good manners, but there was something exasperating about this man. Something about his aloofness and constant staring—as though he’d already decided Signa was a nuisance—caused those manners to waver and harsh words to slip out. Signa could barely stop herself as she took hold of her dress and hiked it up to her knees, freeing enough room for them to spread apart like Sylas’s. “It would seem my manners are as impeccable as yours. I expected someone in your position to be more polite.”
“And what position might that be, Miss Farrow?”
“The position of escorting a lady.”
“A lady?” He cracked open his eyes, assessing her unseemly posture and the hiked-up dress before shutting them again. “Let me know when we find one, and I’ll happily escort her.”
Ignore him, she told herself, forcing her lips into a smile that could burn. You are to be a lady. Poised and graceful and demure. She folded her hands together and patted her dress back into place.
Feigning calmness, Signa inspected their compartment. Beside Sylas was a trolley stuffed full of sugary treats and baked goods. There was sweet sea salt toffee, boxed sticky buns that dripped with thick syrup and golden walnuts, tiny pastries that oozed plum jelly, and so much more. She was so busy feeding her eyes that she nearly jumped when Sylas whispered, “Could I interest you in a handkerchief, Miss Farrow? I believe there’s some drool on your lip.”
She did everything in her power not to cast him a loathing stare, then inquired, “Are these for us?”
He looked to the trolley, but no light shone in his eyes. There was no delight upon his lips, nor a hunger roaring from his stomach. “They must have come with the compartment” was all he said. Flat. Factual. As though there wasn’t a feast of sweets before them. Signa found herself wondering if perhaps this man was inhuman.
A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette claimed that there were important rules when it came to dining in front of others. There were certain forks to be used and a particular order of eating things. Yet Signa longed for the treats so fiercely that her stomach protested her resistance. Loudly.
She froze, waiting in horror to ensure that Sylas hadn’t heard. Luck, however, was too infrequently on her side.
Sylas arched one fine brow as he leaned forward and took hold of Signa’s hand. Though both her hands were gloved, Signa stiffened when Sylas slid a handkerchief into her palm.
His voice was coy when he spoke. “You look as though you’re in pain.”
She wrapped her fingers tight around the handkerchief, thinking through a million things she’d like to say, not one of them proper or polite. Instead, she said, “I had a large breakfast. It would be rude for me to indulge.”
Sylas’s smile was a scythe. A surprising thing, curt and cleaving. There one moment and gone the next. “It would be offensive to waste so much food, Miss Farrow. Especially when it was bought for you. Show some respect to Mr. Hawthorne and eat.”
Perhaps Sylas wasn’t the absolute worst after all. Signa didn’t need to be told twice to pull the trolley toward her. She reached immediately for a tart with bright yellow custard and glazed strawberries, the top sprinkled with powdered sugar. Because there was no cutlery or plates, she slipped off her gloves and tucked them at her side, eating with her fingers.
“Will you be rude to Mr. Hawthorne, then?” she challenged Sylas between bites, doing everything in her power not to groan from the tart’s deliciousness. It’d been ages since Signa had eaten something so overwhelmingly sweet. She polished it off within a minute, moving right on to a sticky bun.
Sylas blinked at the sweets, as though the idea to eat one had never occurred to him. He peered at the cart, scanning over each item before selecting a tiny tea cake drizzled with orange marmalade. As he ate, his posture became less severe and his furrowed forehead less grim. The moment he finished his tea cake, he glanced back at the cart for another.
“Tell me more about your work with the Hawthornes,” Signa said while he chose a small fruit tart. It seemed like a simple enough subject, nothing too personal or too taxing. Even so, Sylas hesitated before answering.
“I used to work closely with his wife, but I’d be surprised if Elijah even knows I exist.”
“He sent you to escort me,” Signa pressed as she tried not to lick her fingers. “Surely, he knows who you are.”
Sylas took perhaps the largest bite Signa had ever seen anyone take, then said, “I was sent by one of the staff. Mr. Hawthorne’s daughter is dying of the same illness that took his wife—he’s not in the right state of mind to know anyone’s name right now.”