Belladonna

THE DRIED BELLADONNA BERRIES FELT LIKE WRINKLED PRUNES AS Signa cupped them delicately in her palms. Still in her gown, she sat cross-legged upon her bed with the window open beside her and the bitter cold pressing against her skin as she recalled her lessons. It wasn’t enough to simply pass through objects. She needed to avoid notice, to befriend the shadows and make herself invisible, just as Death did. With a steadying breath, she focused on her intention—to shed her corporeal form, to join the ghosts of Thorn Grove for just one night—and pressed ten dried berries to her tongue.

Within moments the room around her was spinning. Her temples throbbed, ears ringing as though a pistol had just fired beside her.

Signa? Death’s worried voice cleared a space in her mind and steadied her.

Wherever you are, you don’t need to come, she told him. I’ll be fine. Watch over the others.

When she opened her eyes, she was still in her body, yet it felt lighter. She reached her hand out to the shadows in the corner of the room. They obeyed at once, swirling around her feet and wrapping around her arms, masking her in their darkness.

A thrill of power surged through her blood as the world opened itself for her bidding. Signa moved to inspect herself in the mirror. No face of a ghost peered back at her, for Signa wasn’t like the spirits. She was swathed in shadows, the darkness of the night itself—just like Death.

She’d done it.

You’re not breathing. Death’s voice was hard and icy. Why aren’t you breathing, Signa?

I told you not to worry. With new conviction, she passed through the door to her suite without opening it. I’m going to finally put an end to this.

Signa wasn’t convinced at first that no one could see her, but she willed her invisibility stronger than she’d ever willed anything, and she barely managed to dance out of the way before a maid passed through her. Her hands and feet were bare, and though the shadows protected her, this wasn’t the time to test her fatal touch.

Signa had checked for clues everywhere in Thorn Grove but the bedrooms. She made her way through the rooms one at a time, searching for secrets and lies—anything to fill in the pieces to her incomplete puzzle.

There were ledgers in Warwick’s room, boring leather-bound books filled with notes on what household goods needed restocking and details about each of the servants and their work ethics. When Signa reached for the ledgers, the shadows obeyed her silent command, flipping through the pages for her. She almost laughed, confidence blooming as she called her powers to her and scoured each room. They weren’t much different than the logs she’d already been reading, and she was disappointed to again find no notes on Sylas. There were more ledgers to be searched, but for now there was no choice but to move on.

In one room she found a servant muttering under her breath about curses and ghosts while packing a travel trunk, and in another she found two who were doing everything but worrying over the mysterious disease plaguing the Hawthornes. Cheeks warm, Signa hurried through a wall without looking.

The room she came to next was decidedly feminine, with walls a soft shade of green and a dresser adorned with bottles of amber perfume, a hairbrush, and rouge. She knew the room belonged to Marjorie when saw lesson plans on the desk with Signa’s name on them and brief notes about her progress.

The notes were simple upon first glance, but Signa knew in her gut that there was nothing simple about Marjorie. There had to be something, and so she riffled through her desk until she came across a small leather-bound journal buried at the bottom of a drawer.

She perched on the edge of Marjorie’s bed and set the journal upon her lap. Hands trembling, she flipped to the first page.

October 22, 1852

I’m not sure I will ever belong at Thorn Grove.

How many days will I sweep the kitchen or launder the sheets before she allows me to see him?

Perhaps she’s right and I shouldn’t tell him. Perhaps he will not accept my love after all that has happened. All the same, it is cruel to force us apart. If not for Lillian, all would be as it should. All would be well.

Signa turned to the next page, dated a little over a week later.

November 1, 1852

Lillian has eyes everywhere. I feel them upon me more than ever, watching my every move, ensuring I don’t get too close to him.

But today she took Blythe into town for new dresses for the season, and I found him in the stables, admiring the horses. He’s an excellent rider—he’s excellent at everything he does, really.

Perhaps I should not have told him, but I spent twenty years believing that the truth would set us free. Yet I fear Lillian was right to demand my silence—no one has ever looked at me with such contempt.

Perhaps if I’d listened, my heart would not be breaking.

—————

January 10, 1853

I never imagined what would become of Lillian once the truth was out, but I do not pity her.

This is what she deserves, and when she’s gone, Elijah will be free. This family will be free.

—————

April 11, 1853

Lillian is gone, but I fear she has taken my Elijah with her.

I pray for the children. I pray for Lillian, God rest her soul, and that she will soon be nothing more than a memory to us all.

I pray that, finally, we can be a family.

Signa couldn’t flip through the journal any faster. There were pages upon pages detailing Marjorie’s affection for Elijah, and for the children—and how different life would be had she been the one to raise Percy and Blythe. Marjorie wanted Lillian out of the picture, and by the sound of it, Lillian wanted Marjorie gone just as badly. But if that was the case, why hadn’t Elijah simply sent Marjorie away?

Signa skimmed the pages for anything about belladonna, or even a single hint of poison. But if Marjorie knew anything of it, she knew better than to write about it in her journal.

The entries weren’t proof that Marjorie had harmed Lillian, but they were a clue. Perhaps the poisoner wasn’t Byron after all. Either way, Signa needed more.

She closed the journal and let the shadows wrap tight around it. If someone wanted to take it from her, they’d have to pry it from her cold, dead fingers.

From top to bottom she tore through the room, searching for anything to confirm her suspicions. She groaned, shadows yanking a drawer from Marjorie’s armoire and throwing it across the room in frustration when she still hadn’t found anything more than the journal.

She pressed two more berries upon her tongue, her rations running low since she’d last stocked her supply the night she’d visited the garden. There had to be something more concrete elsewhere in Thorn Grove, and she needed more time to find it. Room by room she hunted for answers. The longer she remained under the belladonna’s influence, the more natural it felt shifting through the walls and walking by people who didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

Eventually, Signa came to the room across from Blythe’s, where Lillian’s portrait stared at her expectantly, urging her to take that next step forward. She heeded the call.

The sitting room was even larger than her own, outfitted with mahogany furniture and walls of soft blue and cream—all covered in a thick layer of dust. It was clear no one had visited in some time. Probably, Signa thought, not since Lillian’s death.

Only the room wasn’t as empty as she’d first believed.

Signa startled at the sound of footsteps in the attached bedroom before remembering that she could not be seen. Gathering her shadows, she floated through the wall and found Marjorie inside. She sat upon the dusty bed, her breathing labored as she held a small black-and-white photograph. Signa stepped around Marjorie to peer over the woman’s shoulder.

The photo was of Percy with his mother and father. Given how young Percy looked, Signa guessed it was taken before Blythe had been born.

Signa didn’t expect the tears that welled in Marjorie’s eyes, nor did she know what to do when Marjorie ripped the photograph in half. She flung open the window nearby and sent scraps of the photo scattering into the snow as she held in her sobs.

Signa had half a mind to abandon her snooping and retrieve those scraps for Percy, knowing he’d never have a chance for another portrait like that one. But she fell still at the sight of Marjorie’s hands. Her fingers were bare, the tips stained a deep plum.

Signa looked down at her own hands.

The fingertips were the same: stained the color of belladonna.

Signa stumbled back against the bedpost. To her dismay, she did not fall through it but hit it hard, making the bed groan. Marjorie whirled around, and Signa used every ounce of her focus to control her ability to conceal herself in the shadows once more.

“Who’s there?” Marjorie’s eyes darted across the room, searching for a body she couldn’t find. Signa made herself small and prayed the belladonna would last long enough for her to leave unseen. She had readied herself to silently flee when Marjorie spoke.

“Is it you, Lillian?” There was a coldness to those words, more frigid than the presence of Death himself. Marjorie spun to search the room, her face glowing amber in the light of the single candle she held before her. “Am I so insignificant to you that a lifetime of torment was not enough? Do you need the afterlife as well? God, what I wouldn’t give for you to just leave!” Marjorie listened to the silence for a moment longer before she sank to her knees, setting the candle aside and cradling her head in her lap. “I’m sorry,” Marjorie whispered, voice like a prayer. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Slowly, puzzle pieces were snapping together. Marjorie’s infatuation with Elijah was no new thing. Elijah was the young man she’d spoken of, the one who had left her. She loved him, and she’d believed that he loved her back.

Perhaps she wanted that second chance. Perhaps she wanted a taste of the life she could have had if not for Lillian.

Signa’s chest burned with the pain of breath flowing back into her lungs. She curled a hand upon her throat, head heavy with questions she wanted answers to—but there was no time left to get them.

She didn’t dare risk being caught with the journal in hand. Signa pushed through the wall without sparing Marjorie another glance, feeling the weight of her body seize her once more. She barely managed to stumble into the hallway before the belladonna faded from her system; her heart restarted and sent the shadows slithering away from her. Skirts in her hands, Signa ran as quickly as she could along the hallway, past the framed portraits with eyes that followed her back to her room.

She slammed the door shut behind her and fell against it, breathless. There was no opportunity to rest, for Death waited before the window she’d forgotten to shut, in the form of his shadows once more. Yet he was not here to make good on what he’d promised her after their dance. The world around him grew tight in the anger she could feel rolling from him in waves, like he was siphoning oxygen from the air.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Signa asked. The question shattered like ice between them, and he turned away.

“It’s Blythe.”