Belladonna

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.”

Signa swallowed down the emotion that made her throat thick. Nineteen years she’d obsessed over that etiquette book, secretly wishing to become a pleasant, proper young woman who might make her mother proud.

Nineteen years, and now Signa didn’t even know whether her mother would have cared about such efforts.

She bowed her head. “Thank you, Elijah—”

Elijah cut her off as soon as she began to speak. He set down his glass and took Signa’s gloved hands in his own. “It’s you who deserves to be thanked.” He squeezed her palms. “So deep was I in my sorrow that I am ashamed to say I’d begun to lose all hope. I owe you a great deal of gratitude for what you’ve done for my daughter, Miss Farrow. For you, this ball is my first gift of many.”

Percy went stiff beside her. “If you’ll excuse me, cousin, I’ll find you later on the dance floor.” He straightened his tie, then the buttons on his gloves—and he was gone without another glance toward his father.

If Elijah was bothered, he didn’t show it. Signa tried to mirror his lack of concern, not letting Percy’s feelings about his father sour her own mood. It was a relief to feel welcomed, a relief to see that Elijah was in no hurry to rush her out of the manor. Signa couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so comfortable in a home. Couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t looked forward to leaving.

“I hope that one day soon we will be standing here at a party to celebrate Blythe,” Signa said.

Elijah’s grip on her hands slackened, and though she couldn’t say for sure, given the poor lighting, Signa thought she saw his eyes well up. “Indeed,” he said softly. “I would like that very much.” He straightened then, dropping her hands altogether. “Now, don’t waste this night with an old man like me. Go on and find someone to dance with. Find fifty people to dance with, should you wish.”

So Signa did. Into the dizzying, swaying bodies she ventured, lingering close enough to appear interested in a dance—but not close enough to get trampled by heels or whipped by flying skirts. With dreamy eyes she watched two women dance with each other as though they were floating upon a cloud, silk dresses swirling around them. She watched with a flutter in her heart as a handsome man offered his hand to a young lady while hoping the next one would choose her.

But the next handsome man Signa saw did not offer his hand, but stole her breath instead.

On the outskirts of the ballroom, Sylas Thorly sipped from a flute of champagne. Signa’s heart stuttered at the sight of him, for in that moment he looked little like staff, or like a young man who worked in the stables, but every bit a proper gentleman in a well-fitted suit of deep onyx and a mask that appeared as though it had been carved from fine metal, crafted with intricate carvings. She had to do a double take to ensure she wasn’t mistaken, but Signa knew she’d recognize those smoky gray eyes anywhere.

Though she knew full well that she shouldn’t be so attracted to him and that she should instead be trying to figure out from whom he had borrowed such a fine suit, Signa couldn’t help but to stare at him for a beat longer. God, he was handsome. Though the very moment she thought it, she forced herself to glance away. Already she was treading a very fine line with her relationship with Death and didn’t need any additional considerations to add to the mix. Not to mention that Sylas had made it clear that he had someone important to him already. Signa needed to get her head on straight.

Still, she felt compelled to know why he would dare risk coming here, even if it was a masquerade. It wasn’t as though she could approach him directly. So, instead, she made her way to a display of sweets nearby, making a show of inspecting them. When her eyes caught Sylas’s from above a beautifully glazed fruit tart, he finished his champagne and set it upon a table as he made his way to the display. “That color suits you,” he said with a wry smile. “You look beautiful.”

Signa steadied herself, not about to be bested by surprise and let him see her trip up. She cleared her throat, quick to right herself, though she had no idea how long she’d be able to keep up with this charade of examining each and every available sweet. That lesson had obviously been missing from her etiquette book.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “You could be caught!”

“Relax,” he said as he plucked a mincemeat pie from the display and took a bite. “Dressed like this, I’m certain no one will recognize me. Besides, this is precisely where I need to be. If someone is trying to harm the Hawthornes, the distraction of the night is a perfect time for them to strike. I want this solved just as much as you do, so I’m keeping an eye out.”

Signa no longer bothered with pretending to select a sweet but held his stare directly and asked, “And why is that, Mr. Thorly?” Surely it couldn’t be for the money alone, could it? Or was there something he needed it for that desperately?

Sylas’s jaw tensed. “It’s no different than I’ve told you already, Miss Farrow. There is a woman I care for immensely, and by assisting you and taking your offer, I’m caring for her in the only way I’m capable of at the moment.”

She wanted to press for more—to know who this girl was and in what ways their deal helped her—though Sylas was spared from answering by a familiar voice that called suddenly from behind Signa, “What a wonderful party!” It was Diana Blackwater who spoke, taking hold of Signa’s arm. Eliza Wakefield was at her side, fanning herself with a frilly white-lace fan. Signa supposed it was meant to look expensive, though it reminded her very much of a tea doily.

“I’ve always heard the Hawthornes’ parties are legendary, but I daresay this one rivals even my imagination.” Diana’s voice was so grating that Signa felt as though her ears might suddenly bleed. Signa turned to glance back at Sylas, and sighed upon seeing that he was already making an escape, not about to let himself get involved with the new arrivals. She supposed she’d just have to get answers from him later.

Diana held her hostage, eyes not on Signa but wandering to the crowd, ensuring that others were looking and would see that she and Signa were—allegedly—close. Signa supposed they were, given that she knew almost no one else at the ball. But Diana doled out quips as though they were compliments, and Signa hadn’t yet forgotten how eager she’d been to gossip about the Hawthornes when she and Signa first met.

Eliza, too, was something else entirely. She held an overly jeweled mask to her face with a long white stick, and she was dressed in a soft lilac gown—the very shade Signa had been meant to wear until she’d been surprised with the gorgeous red gown she wore now.

“I thought you were wearing green?” Signa asked, glad the girl at least had the decency to hide her blush with her mask. “Though the lilac does suit you. Tell me, have either of you seen Miss Killinger?” She searched for her old friend through the swaying bodies and masks.

“She’s likely off somewhere brooding over Lord Wakefield,” Diana scoffed, voice thick with mirth.

Signa straightened her mask with great care, treating it like the most fragile artifact. “Why would she be brooding?”

Diana arched a brow. “We all thought that he and Miss Hawthorne would be matched this season. But with Blythe out of the picture, poor Miss Killinger probably believes she has a chance with him.”

Signa didn’t join in when Diana began to giggle, the sound bitter and ugly. She instead scanned the crowd, relieved to see that Charlotte was far from sulking in the shadows. Her gown was a rich sapphire, gorgeous against her warm brown skin, and her curls were pinned up to show off her delicate neck. The mask she’d donned shimmered like a glittering snowflake.

Charlotte spoke to Percy, who was grinning as though she’d just told the cleverest joke. Charlotte was beaming, too, and soon enough they set their glasses down and took to the dance floor. Diana and Eliza truly were gossipmongers; despite their talk, Charlotte appeared to be having a grand time.

“Her pining will end soon enough,” Eliza said in too airy a tone. Her gaze trailed behind Signa. “My cousin already has his eye on another.”

Signa turned to the man who came up behind her. Even in a mask, she knew from height and hair that it was Everett Wakefield. He was handsome in a fine black suit with a white-and-gold mask that was designed to look like it was cracking. It covered only his eyes, and Signa wondered if he’d done that purposely, so that others could still see the strong cut of his jaw and his smooth brown skin. If he had, then the ploy was working. Young women flocked to him, introduced by eager mamas or simply standing nearby and fanning themselves dramatically in the hope of being noticed.

Signa was glad to see that Everett was polite to those mamas and blissfully ignorant of the surrounding women, though she was unsure how she felt when it became clear that he was watching only her.

“We meet again, Miss Farrow.”

She imagined that his voice should have kicked up a flutter in her chest and frowned a little when it didn’t. “So we do.” A servant offered them each a beautiful glazed tart, and Everett mirrored Signa’s choice to refuse the offer. Her stomach was so sour with nerves that she wasn’t certain she could eat anything without being sick. “I’m glad you could attend, Lord Wakefield.”

What must it be like, Signa wondered, to have an ensemble flocking to get your attention? If she were to walk into a party on his arm, would people rally to speak with her, like they did to him? Signa hated that she wondered. Hated that she cared. What did it matter what others thought of her? It was all starting to seem so ridiculous, and yet she couldn’t help the bitter curiosity that festered within her.

“I apologize for intruding during my last visit,” Everett began in a voice light as gossamer. “I didn’t realize you weren’t yet receiving.”

She blushed; with all that had happened since, she’d completely forgotten the note and his request to call on her. “There’s nothing to forgive. I was flattered.”

He smiled. “Is that so? Well then, Miss Farrow, how would you feel about flattering me in turn by allowing me your first dance?”

She dared a look around him first. Sylas was nowhere to be seen, and it wasn’t as though there was anyone waiting in the shadows for her, so she cleared her throat and lifted her head to reply. “I would be delighted.” Signa discreetly wiped her clammy hands upon her dress before she took hold of Everett’s as he led her to the center of the dance floor, where the jovial music of a gallopade swelled.

Everett bowed, and Signa responded with a curtsy before stepping forward and placing one hand upon his arm and the other in his hand. She swallowed when his hand came around to the small of her back, and they began. It was a fast dance, one with quick footsteps that had everyone weaving from their partners and to the next group over before circling back again. Joyous laughter filled the ballroom. Signa and Everett twirled and wove back and forth, growing flushed and clammy but too delighted to care.

Everett was a skilled dancer, the steps ingrained so deeply within him that he didn’t falter when Signa missed one. His grip on her tightened, helping correct her with not condemnation or embarrassment but a grin.

“Selfishly, Miss Farrow, I’m glad you came to Thorn Grove.” His smile was infectious. The kind that made her cheeks ache without any clue why. And yet, joyous as the dancing was, his arms did not feel right beneath her hands. He wasn’t the one she wanted to dance with. He wasn’t the one she wanted to see her dressed up like this, bold and striking and beautiful.

She grew breathless as they turned about the room once more, her hand coming up to set before his as they circled each other. When she didn’t respond, he leaned close. “I’m looking forward to the spring.”

He’d spoken quietly enough, but Signa caught the tail end of murmured conversations that sounded very much like gossip as too many eyes observed them. She wondered if he noticed it, too, and if it bothered him. So distracted was she that she lost her footing, and he caught her before she could stumble, just in time for the song to end.

His brows creased, forming deep lines upon his forehead. “Are you all right?”

She wished that she had Eliza’s hideous tea-doily fan so that she might hide her warming face. “Quite well,” she said, following suit as the women around her curtsied to their partners. “Thank you, Lord Wakefield. You’re a lovely dance partner.”

He bowed, and though the lines on his forehead didn’t smooth themselves fully, he didn’t press her. “As are you. I hope this won’t be our final dance this evening.”

“No, I don’t imagine it will be.”

It was as though he’d shattered some invisible barrier with that first dance. She only made it a few steps before someone begged her pardon and made introductions. Soon her dance card was filled, with the exception of the last spot. No one dared take the final waltz from Lord Wakefield. He and Signa caught each other’s eyes several times throughout the night as Signa danced and spun and twirled with more men than she could count. Ones older and younger, wealthy and hungry to elevate their status.

Though she’d expected to enjoy her time and conversation, the more people she met, the more drained she became. While most of the men had decency, there were too many who made Signa’s skin prickle, and even one—an older man with a shrewd mouth and wiry frame—whose hands lingered far lower on her back than appropriate.

She caught sight of Charlotte twirling in the arms of men Signa had never met, and then again with Percy. She and her cousin laughed and whispered, eyes gleaming. Signa’s heart warmed at the sight, though Eliza watched from the sidelines, her mouth tight and her fluttering fan almost lethal.

Everyone else certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves. Now that some hours had passed—accompanied by many drinks—the laughs came easier and the mood was even lighter. It was amusing to people watch, though Signa soon found herself wanting to sneak away to her bedroom with grand illusions of lighting some candles and drawing a late-night bath. For weeks now she had been trying to keep herself together. To play pretend, and tell herself that finding her footing in social circles would get easier. But the rules were stressful and unforgiving, and Signa’s chest felt as though it might burst if she could not escape to the shadows to catch her breath.

But just as a dance ended and she began her retreat, all heads turned to watch a new guest arrive.

Signa was certain she’d never seen the man before. Hair silver as starlight was tied at the nape of his neck, while his attire was a black suit of rich imported fabric and boots of the finest dark leather, as were his gloves. On his face was a mask of pure gold—one that had everyone in the room buzzing with whispers. It was a far more gruesome mask than anyone else had dared to wear, almost devilish in its severity, with two long horns spiraling from the base of the skull. He was impressively tall and well-built, and as he stepped forward, people parted for him. He didn’t acknowledge them as he crossed the floor to stand before Signa, nor did he say even a word when he offered his hand to her.

She took it before she knew what she was doing. The music disappeared with his touch, and she knew at once who it was that pulled her into his arms.

“Hello, Little Bird. Care to dance?”