Belladonna

SIGNA HADN’T EXPECTED THEY’D NEED A TRAIN TO REACH THORN GROVE. When she’d first smelled smoke in the air, she’d shut the coach’s windows, thinking they’d pass it by. But as the coach slowed, Sylas pressed a thin yellow ticket into her hand. She’d never been on a train, though she’d read in the papers of how fast they were: the new way of travel; a modern luxury. It took Sylas clearing his throat for her to catch her bearings and slip out of the carriage. The moment the heels of her boots hit the ground, Signa was swept into another world.

The station was a massive building of slate gray, adorned with the face of a clock that was so large it could only be described as imposing. It struck the hour, the sound like a gong reverberating through the station.

Inside, the weathered floors were yellowed. Flies swarmed overstuffed trash bins, and the distinctive scent of musk from too many rushing bodies hung in the air. A spirit was present, too. A man in a long black coat with worn holes in the bottom sat upon a bench and watched the passersby solemnly. Signa averted her eyes, giving him a wide berth.

Dirty as the station was, there was something grand about it. There were men in business attire who held the most luxurious walking sticks, and women in bonnets and cotton day dresses bustled about, all of them with somewhere to be. A few took to benches set up at each platform, skimming a newspaper or puffing on cigars. Others hurried through the station, clutching their belongings as their eyes skimmed up to the giant clock that lorded over them.

An older gentleman with a proud chest escorted a grinning woman who couldn’t stop staring down at the ring on her finger. Pulled in by a habit from too many days spent alone, Signa filled out their story in her head, imagining that they were newly married and off to start their honeymoon. She envisioned all the beautiful gowns that were packed away in the woman’s travel chest, made from the lightest fabrics so that she would feel the salty air upon her skin as she and her beloved traveled seaside. Desire curled within Signa, so fervent that she forced herself to turn away from the couple. What might it be like to be a woman like that? To be swept away across the country by a handsome man she couldn’t stop grinning at, silly with happiness?

Beside her, Sylas murmured something under his breath. Signa nodded and pretended to listen, lost in her daydream and a sea of more people than she’d ever seen. She barely managed to weave around them all as she and Sylas made their way through the station, led by a helpful young attendant who’d taken one look at her ticket and offered to carry her chest. It was solid and heavy, yet Sylas didn’t offer the boy his help. In fact, he kept stone-faced and silent, as if making a point of not looking at the attendant.

“You’ll have the compartment to yourself, miss.” The attendant’s voice was breathy from his struggle with the weight of the luggage. “The finest one on the train.”

Signa had never wandered through a place so busy, and where everything around her felt grand and vast. Where it felt like she’d be lost forever should she make one wrong turn. Though Sylas perpetually looked like someone who’d swallowed a sour tart, she was glad to have him there with her in the event that she got lost. “Have you traveled often?” she asked.

The response came from the attendant beside her. “Not often, miss. I’d love to, if I could manage it between work, but they keep me busy.”

Signa turned to glance at the spot where she’d last seen Sylas, only to discover his absence. Sucking in a breath, she scanned the crowd until she saw him—there, straight ahead, stepping onto the train.

A moment of panic struck, and she spun to the attendant, scooping her hands beneath the travel chest he carried. “Here, give me that,” she said. “I’ll take it the rest of the way.”

The attendant flinched but tightened his grip. “It’s really no bother, miss. This is far too heavy for a lady—”

Fearing there was little time to argue, she pried the chest from his arms. It was, indeed, extraordinarily heavy, made from pure mahogany and fastened with iron locks. It certainly wasn’t intended to be carried by a woman in heels and mourning wear, but she’d manage. The tightening of her lungs—the worry of being separated from the sole person who knew where she was headed and could help her if she got lost—was far worse than the extra weight.

“Thank you so much for your time. I can manage from here” was all Signa said to the attendant before hurrying after Sylas, attempting to take long steps despite her swaying back and shaking arms. Several people offered to help, but already the conductor was calling out for final boarding, and Signa could focus only on getting herself and her belongings where they needed to be and not getting separated from the devil that was Sylas Thorly. By the time she made it to the train, her skin shone with sweat and her breaths were so heavy that no one looked her in the eye.

Even burdened by the weight of her belongings, Signa had to take a moment to admire the beauty of the train. It was finer than she’d expected, with black-iron handrails and sturdy wooden tables that had red-leather benches on either side. Her ticket indicated a private room where Sylas waited, lounging upon a plush velvet seat with his boots kicked up onto the matching maroon seat across from him. He took one glance at Signa and wrinkled his nose.

“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.”

She was glad for the excuse of toffee in her mouth as she pondered what her future would be like at Thorn Grove. Perhaps this journey was little more than a cruel trick; perhaps she’d arrive only to find Death had already staked his claim upon everyone there. Maybe this was his next move in an elaborate game of chess, and she was stuck playing a pawn. Or… maybe he really was trying to prove himself to her.

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” Sylas said. “Do you know what you’re getting into by coming to Thorn Grove?”

She knew so little about the place, and though his question was unnerving, it didn’t change her answer. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

Sylas faced the window next to him, where distant paved streets gave way to a glistening ocean. It made her wonder: Would there be an ocean close to Thorn Grove? Or perhaps there’d be a forest, or nothing but sprawling, rolling hills.

“Your arrival is what Lillian would have wanted,” Sylas said eventually. “She wasn’t someone who could refuse an orphan.”

Orphan. Signa hated the word—hated how it was something that, to most people, defined her and her situation so thoroughly. “What about the estate itself?” she asked, hurrying to change the subject. “Has it been there long?”

“Thorn Grove is a beautiful place. I’m told it’s been passed down for many generations.”

Signa tried not to grimace as she polished off a tart. Places that old were likely crawling with the very spirits she was trying to avoid. “And Mr. Hawthorne is a businessman?” she asked rather than let her thoughts linger. “Does he work in banking?”

She was surprised when the corners of Sylas’s lips quirked. “Not banking, no. The Hawthornes own the most popular gentleman’s club in the country. Its members are dukes and earls. Princes even, so I’ve heard. The wealthiest and most affluent people only. It keeps him a busy man.”

At this, Signa scrunched up her nose. The idea of a club for only wealthy gentlemen seemed ridiculous. “Do they have a club for women as well?”

Lines of confusion etched into Sylas’s forehead. “For women? Of course not.”

“What about one for all people, then?”

Even more lines. “There’s not one of those, either.”

“That’s a shame.” Signa rested her head against the window. “Were they more inclusive, the Hawthornes could be twice as wealthy.” Her words came easier, for it was comfortable in this compartment, even with Sylas. He was rude, certainly, but not cruel. And over the past hour, his brooding had undergone significant improvement. “Is that your business, too, Mr. Thorly? The club?”

His eyes shifted to the trolley cart, skimming over the remaining items. “No. I used to work in the garden, but it was closed after Mrs. Hawthorne’s death. Since then, I’ve been tending to the horses.”

Signa looked to Sylas’s boots—too fine a leather and not nearly so worn as she would expect of someone who spent his time in a stable. The leather of his gloves appeared new, too, as did his coat, with its polished silver buttons and tiny ruby cuff links. It didn’t seem as though he’d have any reason to lie, and yet Signa found it difficult to believe that Mr. Hawthorne would send a stable boy to retrieve her. For now, she made no comment, deciding it was better not to sour the mood.

“Why would they close the garden?” Signa plucked another toffee from the trolley and leaned back against the velvet seat cushion. Though excitement burned in her blood, the sugar was making her tired, and her eyes would drift shut anytime she looked out at the ocean.

“Because that’s where Missus Hawthorne would often spend her days. She’s buried there, beneath the flowers.” There was something calming about the evenness of his voice. No surprising inflections. No emotion seeping through. Just a steady lull that she found herself relaxing into.

“Was her death a pleasant one?” The question hung oddly upon her lips, and she wished at once that she could take it back. Pleasant was a word few would associate with death. But Sylas, fortunately, understood what she was asking.

“I presume you’ve seen a flower wilt, Miss Farrow? That’s what watching Lillian was like. She was like a beautiful flower, cherished by everyone who knew her. Even the illness loved her so greatly that it gave her little reprieve. It wanted her to itself, and so it stole her life suddenly.”

“And what was that illness?”

His brows lowered. “It was such a mystery that the doctors could never give it a name. One day Lillian was fine, healthy, and the next she was vomiting blood. A few days later she lost her ability to speak. Her mouth had festered with the disease, and eventually she lost her tongue to it.”

Signa turned to the window again, though she could see Sylas fidgeting from the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.” His words sounded genuine. “Such conversations are not suitable. My apologies.”

He couldn’t see that Signa’s hands were fisted tight, buried in the folds of her dress. “I take no offense, sir,” she said. “It’s just that I sometimes find myself wondering why death is so needlessly cruel.”

Something twisted in the lines of his forehead. “I think, for someone in as much pain as she was in, death might have felt like a reprieve.”

Signa tried to find some truth in the words. But all she could see was the blood on Aunt Magda’s lips and the hollowness of her eyes as she fell. All she could think of was how her aunt’s hatred had kept her from journeying to the afterlife and had tethered her to Earth for who knew how long. “Perhaps,” she said, voice barely a whisper, “but I don’t believe that makes death any less cruel.”

“And why do you say that?”

She folded her hands upon her lap, trying not to let the bitterness creep into her voice. “Because death is only a reprieve for the dead, Mr. Thorly. It cares little for those it leaves behind.”