Belladonna

SIGNA WAS NO STRANGER TO FINDING WAYS TO PASS THE TIME. LEFT with little to do during her days and few to converse with, she’d spent many afternoons stealing glances out the windows or wandering outside, curious to know more about the neighbors of whatever house she lived in. Some were more interesting than others, sneaking in strange company when their partner was away, or sharing the latest gossip over tea with a friend, which Signa would casually overhear as she just so happened to be taking a walk near an open window. She never spent any time with such people and could do little with the information she gleaned. But for Signa, the point was always to fill in the gaps in their stories. She was intent on solving the puzzles she’d formed in her head, and mentally crafting stories for people she’d never be close to.

Thorn Grove was already a puzzle, and far too much of one for her not to investigate. Signa counted down from sixty before she crept along the dim halls, sticking close to the walls and relying on their shadows to conceal her as she tiptoed toward the staircase. Technically, she’d be breaking no rules so long as she remained on the landing.

Signa crouched and peered down the banister—through the crafted branches that adorned it—and into the party below. From this angle, she could see only glimpses of what was happening, and she had to strain to hear voices over the swell of a piano and violin. The details of the gathering came to her in pieces—in bright lights and flashes of golden walls and silver serving trays. Crystal flutes filled with bubbling champagne, and miniature gilded cakes that were offered to women in beautiful gowns and men in their proper tailcoats. Those who didn’t eat either busied themselves by drinking or by dancing to the music that swept through the ballroom. Their dancing, however, was not at all what she expected.

Signa’s grandmother had often relayed stories of her daughter’s fondness for parties. It was at a ball where Rima met Signa’s father, and her grandmother had always promised that Signa would have the same fortuitous fate. They never discussed how it was Rima’s love for parties that ultimately stole her life, focusing instead on romanticizing her time alive. For years Signa had listened to stories of her mother, told to her with great softness as her grandmother brushed through her hair or tucked her into bed, as though speaking the stories aloud would keep them alive. Signa had loved hearing the stories and imagining that she would soon follow in Rima’s footsteps. But her young life had not gone as she’d hoped, and those stories now filled her with a deep envy for the women adorned in silks and lace, with their delicate curls and rouge on their cheeks. They made her wonder where her beautiful stranger was, the man who would sweep her away into a waltz (which she’d of course be perfect at, despite never having danced outside her bedroom).

But if the etiquette book Rima left behind was any indication of what a party should have been like, the one happening at Thorn Grove was all wrong. Parties were meant to have dance cards. Varying music for each different dance, with a myriad of rules for every one of them. No woman was to drink more than a single flute of champagne, laugh so boisterously, or dance so freely. Yet at Thorn Grove, no one paid etiquette any mind.

Flushed were the women who stumbled from the ballroom for fresh air, hiccupping as they fanned themselves. They used those fans to swat away the eager hands of those who tried to pull them in for a dance, and instead hunted down the lavish cakes with rosy frosting and golden glitter. No one seemed to pay any mind to the two women who were tucked away in the far corner, their bodies pressed so close that blood rushed to Signa’s cheeks; she’d never seen two people embracing so thoroughly.

Either her etiquette book was more outdated than she thought, or this was far from polite society.

It took Signa a moment to notice that there was a familiar face in the crowd—Percy, standing outside the ballroom with his hand fisted around a champagne flute as cheers erupted from inside. With everyone distracted, Signa lowered herself down the first step for a better vantage. She could barely make out a man standing upon the highest point of a chairback, making a show of balancing himself as the chair tipped. The man clapped, demanding everyone’s attention. He seemed to be enjoying himself, just as the guests of the party appeared to be enjoying his show.

Percy, however, was glowering. So was the long-nosed older man beside him, the one who had grabbed Marjorie’s hand earlier. Byron. “Someone needs to put a stop to this,” Percy demanded. His expression was so severe that Signa thought to slink back into the safety of her room, knowing she shouldn’t get involved. But still no one had noticed her, and curiosity kept her grounded, pressing closer to the shadows to observe.

“It will be worse if either of us makes a spectacle,” said the man, his lips thinning as Percy stepped out of his reach.

“How many months must we stand by and watch? How long must we allow him to play at this fantasy? My father is no child, and this house is no circus! It’s been half a year, Uncle.” Percy’s fist was balled so tightly that if he hadn’t slammed his crystal flute to the floor at that moment, it might have shattered in his hand. The dark-haired man sighed and drew back several paces while Percy surged forward, demanding the attention of every eye that turned curiously toward him, including that of the man on the chair—who, Signa now understood, was Elijah Hawthorne.

He was rosy cheeked and glossy eyed, with a tall, willowy frame and a head of blond waves. There was a grandness to him, an air of exuberance that said he was someone who could crack the world open with his smile. Someone who kept company with earls and princes, and somehow seemed even grander than them.

“Given how much time they’ve been spending in our home, I thought it only polite to say some words to your guests, Father.” Percy’s smile was thin as he glanced past Elijah to a roomful of guests who looked entirely disinterested in having to observe anything so serious. “I wanted to take a moment to thank you all for coming for this continued celebration of my dead mother.”

Elijah stepped down from the chair as the music quieted, eyes tight on his son, who did not falter amid surprised gasps.

“Seeing as my mother could not eat, dance, be merry, or so much as breathe in her final days, I’m sure she would have appreciated how you all do so endlessly.” Percy squared his shoulders. “And thank you to my father, for continuing to throw these soirees in her honor, so that we may continue to celebrate her death together.” He raised his champagne flute for the toast.

No one dared to move, waiting for the lord of Thorn Grove to speak. To punish his son for his outburst, or somehow mend this disgraceful situation. But instead, Elijah found a platter with a miniature cake upon it and took the plate in his hands. Removing one of his gloves, he plucked the dessert up with his fingers, taking a bite as he approached his son. So quickly that anyone who blinked would have missed it, Elijah shoved the rest of it into Percy’s mouth.

“Come, Percy.” Elijah laughed. “You’re too uptight. Would it be so bad to relax for a single night?”

A crowd Signa could not see gasped as Percy stumbled, spitting the cake out and wiping pink frosting from his lips with a snarl. She couldn’t hear what Percy said to his father; could see only that his mouth moved to spit the words before he shoved away from Elijah.

Laughter rose as Percy reeled back and Elijah stretched his hand out for another flute of champagne. “Now,” he said as he stepped back onto the chair—the music swelling again, as though it had never missed a beat—“where were we?”

Percy stormed out of the room, bolting toward the stairs even as Byron reached for him. He was so quick that Signa hardly had time to stand, unable to retreat to the shadows before he noticed her. Percy’s bitter eyes landed upon Signa’s.

“Nice to see you again, cousin.” He spoke through clenched teeth, trying to still his shaking fists as he looked over the black dress Signa had yet to change out of. “Come to enjoy the party?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never seen a ball before, and I… I thought… I just wanted to see what it was like.” Signa didn’t have the heart to tell him that frosting smudged his chin. She barely had a voice at all; it felt as though anything above a whisper might break him.

Percy didn’t share the same issue. His voice was a loaded pistol, ready to strike anyone in its path. “Well, now you know. My mother died months ago, and he’s been throwing these ridiculous parties ever since. They last for days, sometimes. Or hours if he gets into one of his moods and has everyone escorted out. I’d wonder why people keep bothering to show up, if not for the fact that these social-climbing deviants have nothing better to do with their time.”

Signa couldn’t tell if talking was helping him blow off steam or was building up even more of it. Either way, she didn’t think it fit to stop him. “I’m sorry—” she began, cut off as he held up a hand.

“It’s no matter, cousin.” Wiping the frosting from his chin, he pushed past her and up the stairs. “Think of it as your welcome to Thorn Grove.”