Belladonna

THERE WAS SOMETHING STRANGE ABOUT THE MAPLE LEAVES. THOSE that lay scattered across the lawn of Thorn Grove were deeper in color than any Signa had seen before—some of them rich as coffee, others the burnished red of dried blood.

The pitted roads their second carriage had traveled upon since arriving by train morphed into manicured cobblestone, so white and pristine it looked as though someone had dropped to their knees and scrubbed each stone. Tall, manicured hedges lined the endless stretch of road that led to the estate, some of them twisted into elegant spirals or trimmed into the shapes of horses or swans.

The exterior of Thorn Grove was grand—a massive brownstone manor like the kind she imagined her parents had once owned, situated upon rolling hills that were fading to yellow to welcome the shift into autumn. There were windows at least three times her size, pointed red rooftops protected by sculpted winged beasts, and finely lacquered carriages pulled by muscular horses that trotted through an iron gate strung with jasmine and ivy.

Dozens of people meandered across the lawn. Gentlemen and ladies in their finest suits and most eye-catching bustles filtered in and out of the manor with flutes of champagne balanced gingerly between fingers and laughter upon their tongues.

It was certainly a far cry from Aunt Magda’s; there was wealth everywhere Signa looked. Dignified pillars surrounded the courtyard, inlaid with whorls of gold. On the second floor of the manor, delicate stained-glass windows of a million colors shone over a balcony. Even the soil itself looked rich, and the grass somehow wilder and more vibrant than what lay beyond the gates. There were no weeds to be seen, and tiny orange and yellow wildflowers bloomed across the hills, stretching toward a thick grove of trees in the distance—the start of the woods.

No place had ever stolen her breath so thoroughly; Signa found herself pressed against the carriage window, fogging the glass as the landscape unfolded before her. She felt like a minnow in a springtime pond, small and insignificant among such beauty.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, it took everything in her power to remember her manners and not throw the door open so that she might hurry and explore, but instead wait for the coachman to clamber down and open the door for her. When he did, the brisk autumn air grasped Signa around the shoulders, carrying the scent of sap and earth and twirling leaves underfoot. It wisped through her dark tresses, and she breathed in its greeting as she made her way up the path toward the magnificent estate.

Waiting upon the massive porch, three people watched Signa at a distance—a portly older man, a gentle-looking woman, and a young man with the most severe expression she’d ever seen. The younger man stood upon the threshold of Thorn Grove in a fine navy suit that fit him like a glove, his shoulders squared as he observed the guests filtering in. He was far too young to be Signa’s guardian, yet the pride in his frame spoke of his comfort at the manor.

It’d do her no good to simply stand there, yet Signa waited a beat longer, wishing at once that she had a mirror. Even a large body of water or a polished stone would do—anything she could see her reflection in—so that she might ensure she looked presentable. She fussed with her mourning dress, smoothing out the bombazine to make it more presentable. “That couldn’t be Mr. Hawthorne, could it? Oh, he looks so young. Tell me quickly, am I presentable?” She looked to Sylas, whose smoky-gray eyes skimmed over her just once. At the worry in her voice, he softened a little.

“That isn’t Elijah,” he said. “And you look fine, Miss Farrow. Given how far we’ve traveled, I’m certain they wouldn’t mind if you arrived haggard.”

She wondered whether that was meant to reassure her. “If you could introduce me, Mr. Thorly, it’d be much appreciated.”

But Sylas drew back with a dip of his head. “Believe me when I say it would be better if I didn’t. Mr. Hawthorne didn’t give the staff much notice of your arrival, and not everyone will take kindly to someone of my status being sent to escort a lady such as yourself. You’ll have to handle introductions on your own, I’m afraid.”

There wasn’t time to press for further details, as Sylas was already escaping down the hill behind her and toward the stables. Left standing alone among fallen maple leaves with panic in her chest, Signa swallowed and tried to quell her fretting by recalling the introductory lessons in her mother’s etiquette book.

1. A woman should always wear a smile.

2. A woman should never shake the hand offered to her but accept it with cordial pressure.

3. For a woman, meekness and modesty are considered two of the most respected virtues. They’re to be practiced at all times.

Signa had trouble believing the third rule was one anyone should adhere to. Though, for the sake of her future, she’d try. Skirts in hand, Signa started up the path to the manor. Curious eyes and pointed whispers followed her, and step by step, Signa found herself wishing only for a deep enough hole in which she might hide.

It was impolite to be seen dressed in mourning wear at a soiree, yet what choice did she have? It seemed a poor day for her new guardian to hold such an event, though she was in no position to comment.

When she approached the young man at the door, Signa could see from his smooth face and intense eyes that he was even younger than she’d assumed, in his early twenties. Up close, he reminded Signa of a fox, with bright green eyes that were friendly but a little too squint as they peered down at her. The sun had leeched away color from his hair. It wasn’t red, nor was it blond, but somewhere odd and in between. A rich harvest orange, brassy and bright. There was a hitch in his jaw as he looked her over, clearly attempting to level his disapproval.

“Miss Farrow?” asked the older man beside him. He was stout and of an olive complexion, dressed in a fine black suit. Though a smile lingered beneath his full black mustache, his eyes were dark and tired things. “Welcome. I’m Charles Warwick, the butler of Thorn Grove.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve arrived,” said the younger one, his chin dipping as he inspected her. “Father told us of you just this morning. Welcome, cousin. I’m Percy Hawthorne.”

Signa extended a hand, and when her cousin accepted it after a beat of hesitation, she squeezed with her best effort at cordial pressure. Percy’s lips pressed into a thin line as he drew his hand back, tucking it behind him. Perhaps that was too much pressure, then. Or maybe not cordial enough? Or was this a situation that warranted a curtsy and no handshake at all? A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette really ought to have been more specific.

“We’re glad to have you staying with us, Miss Farrow.” Signa was relieved to turn her attention to a curvy woman who had soft strawberry-blond curls and was wearing a dress the color of blue forget-me-nots. “Do you not have an escort?” The woman glanced behind Signa, as if expecting someone else to appear. When no one did, she took Signa by the shoulder. “Never mind that. I’m Marjorie Hargreaves, governess to the master’s daughter, and now to you as well. Your room is already in order.” Her voice was soft as a song. “Should you need anything, I’d be happy to—” She jumped as glass shattered somewhere near the estate’s entrance, followed by laughter that sounded… inebriated, to put it kindly.

Percy’s eyes flashed, though that lasted for only a moment before he rectified himself. “Warwick will see to it that your belongings are moved in promptly. You should have no trouble settling in.”

Marjorie motioned for her to follow them into Thorn Grove, and once inside, Signa knew that her cousin was right. The estate was grander than anything she could have imagined; they could have put her in a stall with the horses, and she would have been just fine. Anything was better than living at Aunt Magda’s, but Thorn Grove was on a level of its own. Still, there certainly were a lot of people.

“Is Mr. Hawthorne celebrating something?” she asked, hoping for an indication that this was a rare occurrence. Percy scowled, and though he opened his mouth to respond, Warwick cut in with a swift, “It’s nothing to pay any mind to right now. If you’re wanting to attend, then worry not. There will be plenty of soirees for you to join in the future when you’re properly dressed and prepared.”

Signa brushed a clammy hand over her gown. “Come,” Marjorie said with a kind smile. “You must be tired after your travels.” She jumped at the sound of another crash, followed by even rowdier laughter in the ballroom ahead, but she never once looked away from Signa.

Percy’s focus, however, was divided. “I look forward to getting to know you better, cousin. Welcome to Thorn Grove.” Hat in his hands, he bowed to her before turning on his heel and heading off toward the sound of the breaking glass, Warwick following behind. And though Signa’s curious mind lingered, Marjorie allowed no time for her thoughts to fester.

“Come,” Marjorie said again. “I’ll show you to your suite.”

Marjorie escorted Signa up one of the two grand mahogany staircases that led to the second level of the massive three-story estate. The governess made polite small talk but kept peering down, craning her neck to sneak glances at the party below. So distracted was Marjorie that she hadn’t noticed the man who leaned upon a banister that had been sculpted to look like the branches of a gnarled tree and twisted up the entirety of the two staircases.

Signa noticed him, though. Noticed he had hair black as pitch, a long, pointed nose, and sinister eyes that cared only for Marjorie. When the stranger leaned forward to snatch hold of her hand, Marjorie practically leaped from her own skin.

“How are you such a difficult woman to find, Miss Hargreaves?” His voice was low and unpleasant, as if he were speaking around something lodged deep in his throat. The man wore shoes of the finest leather Signa had ever seen, and his rich black suit appeared to have been custom made, with buttons of melted silver. In his hands was a walking stick he grasped tightly—a stunning piece of rosewood, with a brass handle that was carved into the shape of a bird’s skull. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Lay a hand on me again and I will push you over this banister, Byron.” Marjorie ripped her hand away, placing it instead upon Signa’s back with some force. “Come, Signa. Pay these guests little mind. They’re forbidden on the upper levels.”

“I am no guest, Miss Hargreaves—” the man tried again, but Marjorie didn’t spare him so much as a second as they hurried up the stairs, much to Signa’s disappointment. She rather disliked puzzles, for she had a bad tendency to need to solve them. Life, she believed, would be much simpler if one had the answers all laid bare before them.

It’d been only an hour since she’d arrived, and already Thorn Grove was filled with curiosities. It was odd that Mr. Hawthorne would hold a soiree the same day as her arrival, let alone that he’d sent a stable boy as her escort and kept her coming a secret until the last moment. And what were they celebrating downstairs at such an early hour, with the echo of laughter and shattering glassware? Signa wanted to ask, but the tension pulsating in Marjorie’s neck warned this wasn’t the time. Signa was a beggar, not a chooser, and she needed to play what few cards she had carefully.

Her skin itched, and she wondered if this was all some sort of trap. Some clever ruse of Death’s. Had he known Elijah would invite her to stay? Had Death been the one to pull the strings, and if so, how?

It took what felt like ages of walking through long stretches of dimly lit halls before they arrived to Signa’s new room, a space nearly the size of Aunt Magda’s entire house, with a sitting room, bedroom, and her own bath all attached in one suite. In the sitting room, the wallpaper was beautifully latticed in varying shades of green, with velvet gold curtains draped across glass doors that opened onto a balcony.

Rich mahogany floors were covered with an oversize Persian rug decorated in emerald and gold, and Signa wanted nothing more than to curl her toes into it. The ceiling itself was a brilliant white, with thick molding embellished with expertly carved vines and flora. It matched the fireplace, where yellow peonies blossomed from thin glass vases upon the mantel. Plush reading chairs were meticulously placed around it, while a dainty wooden drawing table sat behind, close to the window. Light shone upon it like a halo from the gap in the curtains, warm and inviting.

Signa’s heart squeezed as she took it all in. This was the most beautiful space she’d ever seen, and somehow it was hers. “Will I be able to meet Mr. Hawthorne this evening?” she asked. “I’d like to thank him for allowing me to stay here.”

“The master is a busy man,” Marjorie said as she helped a distracted Signa out of her coat. The woman moved to put it in the armoire, but upon seeing the stain of belladonna berries upon a more thorough inspection, she scrunched up her nose and draped the coat over her arm for laundering. “But I will speak to him of his plans for you, and I assure you that you’ll be well taken care of. You’ll be fitted for new dresses in the morning, after your lessons.”

Signa’s hair whipped into her face as she spun to face Marjorie. There was no filtering the excitement from her voice. “My lessons?”

Marjorie’s laugh was smooth as silk. “You’re a young woman, Miss Farrow, and I am the governess of this estate. I’m not certain what your education was like before, but while you’re here, it’s only fitting I help prepare you for marriage, and for one day managing a home of your own. I assume you’ve not yet made your debut?”

“You assume correctly.” Again, there was that hopeful edge. The thrill of being presented with exactly what she’d yearned for: To debut into society. To attend parties and be courted by handsome suitors, and then to gossip about them with friends over tea. The idea of it alone threatened to burst her heart. It was all there within her grasp.

“Then I’ve plenty to teach you, and very little time to do it.” Marjorie set her free hand on her hip, still smiling. “Shall we start tomorrow?”

Weary as she was, Signa would get started now, should Marjorie allow it. A fluttering in her heart made her impatient and wanting. But there were six more months until she would receive her inheritance, and if she was to last at this estate—if she was to have the freedom of the life she wanted—then she needed to ensure that Death couldn’t get his hands on anyone at Thorn Grove. Not to mention she’d have to watch her own hands, too.

Though she knew they would not hurt anyone right now, she tucked her hands behind her back all the same and smiled. “Tomorrow is perfect.”

“Wonderful.” Marjorie readjusted the coat in her arm. “You may take the rest of the evening to settle in, then. You’re welcome to explore any of the upper floors, but I ask that you keep off the first level while the guests are here. Tonight, dinner will be brought to you, so please relax. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

She was. But as Marjorie saw herself out, letting the door shut quietly behind her, Signa knew there would be little relaxing. The moment the woman’s footsteps disappeared down the hall, Signa cracked the door open again.

Marjorie had suggested she explore after all.