Belladonna

SIGNA PUSHED PAST A SACK OF POTATOES NEARLY THE SAME SIZE AS she was to crouch through the small opening into the kitchen pantry. As she shoved it aside, it tipped over and sent nearly a dozen potatoes toppling onto the floor. In the silence of the night, their tumble seemed loud enough to shake all of Thorn Grove. She cursed her poor fortune as she stuffed everything back into place, concealing the tunnel door into the pantry. Tearing off her gloves, she stuffed them into her bodice and tried to look at least halfway like she’d been ready for sleep in case someone came for her. When no one did, Signa gathered her skirts and tiptoed out through the kitchen and past the parlor. She’d reached the edge of the stairs when a gruff voice called, “What in the devil are you doing up at this hour?”

Signa spun to find Elijah Hawthorne staring at her through the open door to the parlor. He was dressed in his nightshirt, though the exhaustion upon his face made it clear he’d not slept. Perhaps not even in days, given the shadows under his eyes.

She wrapped her borrowed cloak tighter, thankful to the darkness for concealing her. One look at her muddied skirts, and Elijah would realize Signa had not yet been to bed. “Good evening, sir.” Her mind raced through a list of every possible excuse, all of them feeling heavy on her tongue. “I was having trouble sleeping.”

“So you took to wandering?” His clever eyes flickered behind her, toward the kitchen, and Signa’s blood ran cold—he knew. Or at least he suspected. This was his home after all. He probably knew of each and every one of the tunnels. Yet, if Elijah did realize, he said nothing of it. Rather, he waved Signa over to where he sat at a small round table before the buttery-yellow walls. Though Signa detested the color, she had to admit that the room was cozy overall, which said a great deal given that she could admire it even beneath the weight of Elijah’s severity.

“Come sit, child.” There was a checkerboard before him, and as Signa joined him, he adjusted the pieces. “Do you play?”

“I do,” she answered without specifying that she’d only ever played against herself. She had a feeling there was a correct answer and didn’t want to risk losing an opportunity to speak with the man she was most curious about. And so she reached for the black pieces, careful to keep her skirts tucked under the cloak.

“I understand the inability to sleep.” Elijah let her make the first move, not watching her as he observed the board. “This is no welcoming home, I’m afraid. Though I must caution you against any exploration, especially at such late hours. Nights in this manor are often difficult for those faint of heart.”

Signa waited for him to move his checker toward the middle of the board, then moved her own before responding. “I’m aware of the rumors but be assured that my heart is not faint. Are these ghosts the reason you’re up as well, sir?”

There was a tick in his jaw. One so quick she would have missed it had she not been watching him so closely. “Do you hear her, too, child?” He jumped one of her pieces, capturing the middle of the board. “Do you hear her crying?”

No matter how she strained, she couldn’t hear even a whisper of noise within Thorn Grove. “I hear no one, sir. Not at the moment.”

Elijah was unfazed as she tried to surround his pieces. “So you see the problem. I cannot sleep when I hear her roaming about, haunting these halls, and yet I cannot so much as shut my eyes in her absence, for I wonder if I will ever hear her again.”

He captured another piece of Signa’s in her distraction, for in the darkness of the shadows she finally saw who she was dealing with—not a fool, as he’d seemed the first time she’d seen him, nor a drunk, but a man who was fraying at the seams. One who was hardly able to keep himself together. Elijah ran a hand over his face, his graying scruff too long and untamed for societal standards.

Too late she realized that even in this state, Elijah was the one steering this conversation. “Had I felt like there was a choice, I would have never taken another ward.” He looked not at her but to the pieces laid before him, like he was sorting out his own puzzle.

Signa was taken by surprise at the bitter sting she felt at his words. It made sense Elijah wouldn’t have wanted her—she came with too much baggage, and for someone with such wealth, there was no benefit for Thorn Grove to take her in. Still, hearing it aloud hurt more than she cared to admit.

“There is a cleverness in your eyes, girl,” Elijah said. “You are not so dense to realize that I am a man who wouldn’t remember to put on my coat if I didn’t have someone to do it for me. A day here is enough for you to know, I’m sure, that my wife is gone and my daughter not so far behind. And my son—God, my son. I’ve failed the poor boy in too many ways. Yet, had my Lillian known of your situation when your grandmother passed, she’d have demanded we take you in. It was a misfortune that we were unaware until recently, for she would have given you a wonderful life. That was her way, God rest her soul. She took in whoever, and she would love them. In her memory, I had no choice but to bring you here.”

Elijah’s jaw snapped shut, as if deciding he’d spoken too much on the topic. A shadow crossed his face, and he let Signa capture two of his pieces.

“I’ve gone nineteen years without a parent, sir,” she told him. “I’ve no interest in obtaining one now. I am grateful for what you’ve provided, and for me, that is enough. I am quite well suited to being on my own.”

To her surprise, Elijah laughed. It was a quiet sound, little more than a hiss of air. “I used to believe that, too.”

Signa had no chance to say anything more, for Elijah cleared the board with one final move. Her mouth gaped open as he captured every one of her remaining pieces in one fluid stride. “Those who play a defensive game of checkers will always lose.” He didn’t wait for her to stand. Didn’t offer a hand to help her up. “Good night, Signa. I pray that sleep will find us well, and that we do not meet here again tomorrow night.”

It seemed that if she was going to meet up with Sylas after hours again, she’d need to find another tunnel. That, or perhaps learn to walk through the walls after all. Signa waited, staring at the board and retracing her moves until the sound of Elijah’s footsteps disappeared. When they did, she headed up the stairs.

To the surprise of her poor heart, she found she was not alone. Percy sat on the top step. Had his hair not been bright as a flame, she might have tripped over him in the darkness.

“Percy!” She clutched her chest. “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” His voice was a low whisper. “I was coming down for a drink when I heard the two of you, and I just… Forgive me for eavesdropping. It’s been so long since my father and I had a real conversation. I’d nearly forgotten him capable of it.” His shoulders caved inward like a wilting flower. “That was her favorite room, you know. That’s the reason he goes in there so often. This house has always been so strange and dreary, and she wanted a space that felt entirely her own. Father fought her on the color for the longest time—he hated the yellow. But my mother was always good about getting her way. Sometimes I see him in there just staring at the walls, remembering.”

Signa could almost picture Lillian gliding through the halls, taking tea in the parlor and mulling over the decor. It seemed like she had such a different life—such a different family—than the one Signa was coming to know. “Do you ever speak with him?” she asked, heart heavy. It seemed to her that, though he might refute it, Elijah was in great need of company.

Percy’s face soured. “My father wasn’t often around. Marjorie gave me my lessons, and Uncle Byron taught me to be a gentleman. My father and I only ever spoke of two things—the business I would one day run and my obligation to keep up appearances and maintain the status of the family. For twenty-two years that was our connection. And now he has severed it with no explanation. So no, we no longer talk, for we don’t even know each other.”

It took a moment before Signa could respond. As someone with a different and overall frustrating experience with death, she took a great deal of care with her words. “Grief is a strange thing, Percy, for no two people experience it the same.” It was a foreign thing, to have someone to comfort. She didn’t know if what she was doing was right as she reached out and set her hand upon his; she knew only that this was what she’d always wanted for herself. For someone to sit with her and take her hand, and to know that they were there for her.

Percy needed someone—it was clear in the way he glared at the floor, and the slump of his shoulders—and Signa was glad to be that person for him. She took a seat beside him, patting his hand gently as she said, “I’m sorry for what you’re going through. It sounds like he loved your mother very much.”

He stared down at her hand with a frown. “More than anything or anyone. But that doesn’t give him an excuse to disappear when the rest of us still need him.”

Signa understood all too well. She’d spent years watching everyone she knew become ghosts—even those who were still living. “It doesn’t,” she agreed. “But he is a smart man, and I believe he’ll find his way back to you. He may simply need more time.”

Percy turned his hand in hers. “Thank you, cousin. For the sake of this family, I do hope you’re right.”

Drawing himself up onto his feet, he offered his hand to help pull her up as well. Yet as he did, his eyes caught the sight of Signa’s muddied skirts peeking out from under her cloak. Though he said nothing of it, deep lines creased Percy’s brow as he set his hand upon the small of her back and guided her deeper into the house, as though she might otherwise flee. “Come, cousin,” he pressed, “whatever troubles we must endure, they will still be here after a night’s rest.”