Belladonna

SIGNA SEARCHED FOR DEATH EVERYWHERE THESE DAYS.

He no longer came to her in the night. Nor did he come to her when she visited Mitra in the stables, where another stable boy had taken his place, as though Sylas had never existed. Death did not come to her even when her thoughts strayed to the press of his body against hers, or when she craved the power that thrummed through her blood along with it. Nor was he there now, among the dancers and gossipers at Thorn Grove. She looked for his black suit against the gilded walls. His devilish horned mask weaving between the guests. As she had at every party since her debut, she searched for him over the rim of her champagne flute, unsettled when the hair along the back of her neck remained flat and her spine was warm rather than chilled.

I want to see you. She was glad, at least, that she could still communicate with him. As frustrating as it all was, he was still a reaper, and wherever he ventured, death was sure to follow. And Signa had to admit that she’d grown quite comfortable with her life at Thorn Grove and those who were part of it. It was about time her world settled.

His answer came in a honeyed voice. Shall I bring about a plague? We would get to see each other quite often, then.

Signa snorted and took another sip of champagne, about to warn him not to threaten her with a good time, when a deep voice came from behind her.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Farrow.” She’d not heard from Lord Wakefield since the Christmas ball four months prior, when she’d missed their promised last waltz. It was her hope that he’d lost interest, though the glint in his eyes signaled she’d been mistaken. Like all suitors, though, the sooner she could scare him away, the sooner she could begin her life as a proper spinster whose only companion was the night itself.

On that night, however, she and Everett had no choice but to reacquaint themselves. “Allow me to introduce my father,” he said, “His Grace the Duke of Berness, Julius Wakefield.” Beside Everett stood a man who looked every bit his blood. He was a full head taller than Signa, with deep-set eyes and broad shoulders. He had an air about him that made her skin prickle, for the way he looked at her reminded her of how one might inspect a show horse prior to placing their bets.

The idea of curtsying to anyone who looked at her like that was enough to make her skin crawl in protest. And yet she did curtsy, for this man was the new owner of Grey’s, set to take control the next month in a deal that would have him splitting the profits with the Hawthornes. Elijah had been dancing through the halls since the deal was made. Even Byron wasn’t quite so cranky about the decision as one might have expected. He’d still be getting paid, and his family would be forever taken care of and remain in its bolstered status. A family that he now planned to have, if him courting his way through the ballroom was any indicator.

As this occasion with Everett and his father was a celebration of the transfer, Signa bit her tongue and lowered her head to Lord Julius for Elijah’s sake. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Your Grace,” she said, making her voice buttery. It took everything in her power to maintain her smile when he continued to inspect her for too long a moment before clasping Everett upon one shoulder.

Only then, apparently having deemed Signa worthy enough, did the duke grin. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Farrow. My son has told me much about you. You look so very much like your mother, you know.” There was a hardened edge to his words. “Though your eyes are most unusual.”

Signa sipped from her champagne flute. “They’re most unusual indeed, Your Grace. For with them, I am able to see spirits.” When she allowed her lips to stretch into a coy grin, Julius exhaled a rumble of laughter from somewhere deep in his belly.

“Am I missing all the fun?” Elijah appeared behind him, drawn to the laughter. He was practically glowing from within. “Charming the duke, are we, Signa?”

“Your niece seems to be a fine young woman,” said Julius. “Not that I expected anything less. My Everett is quite taken with her.”

Everett looked ready to melt into a puddle and forever disappear into the earth. Signa, cheeks warm and neck clammy, was prepared to join him. The two looked to the gilded walls and the crystal chandeliers, to the floor and the dancers, and to anywhere but at each other.

Will you be able to visit me tonight, should I die of mortification? Signa asked Death, who had chosen now of all times to go quiet.

Elijah, bless his beautiful soul, was quick to catch on and steer Julius’s attention away from Everett and Signa. “I think it’s about time for us to prepare our toast. Come with me, and let’s get ourselves another drink first.” He led Julius into the crowd so that Everett and Signa stood alone, both of them staring at the floor and trying to form words that would not further their embarrassment.

“What a riveting conversation,” Everett said, clearing his throat and scratching at the back of his neck.

So charming was his bashfulness that Signa smiled. “How have you been, Lord Wakefield? It’s been some time since we last spoke.”

While she’d anticipated he would laugh and play coy with her, he answered with deep confusion. “It certainly has been. Though—and forgive me for being so bold—when you did not return for another dance with me that night of the Christmas ball, I assumed my interest was… unrequited.”

He was right, for while dancing with Everett had been lovely, it had not compared with dancing in Death’s arms. Still, Everett was a kind man, and she didn’t wish to hurt him. “I apologize. The excitement of the night got the better of me, and I lost track of the time.”

Unfortunately, Everett didn’t quite get the hint, for his face lit up. “Dance with me tonight, then.”

Signa wasn’t certain how she could say no. Flustered, and with guilt rising in her stomach, she offered him her dance card, and Everett promptly filled in not one but two spots. Later, she’d have to find a way to let him down gently. But, for that night, she hoped Death wasn’t paying attention.

Eliza Wakefield, however, was very much paying attention. When Signa noticed, Eliza glanced away quickly and turned her attention to laughing at whatever those around her were saying. Signa cringed. She’d hoped that she wouldn’t have to speak with Eliza or that mousy friend of hers, Diana—both of whom she’d declined tea with twice now. But it was impossible not to see her, given the abominable tea-doily fan that Eliza waved about.

Everett caught her staring and creased his brow, for Signa was making a rather displeased expression that she had little control of. “Is something the matter?”

She shook her head. “I was simply admiring Eliza’s dress. Such a beautiful thing it is, so bright and… yellow.”

“Father thought it wise for her to wear something bold. He’s eager to see her married, I think. He’s been taking calls from gentlemen all week. I believe she may soon be promised to Sir Bennet.” He nodded discreetly to a man across the ballroom floor. Signa had to bite her tongue not to say anything. Sir Bennet was not an unattractive man, but he was quite old, with a head full of white hair and wrinkled skin around his eyes. He hunched a little as he walked, shoulders rounding in on themselves.

“Not the most youthful man,” Everett said, guessing what Signa was thinking without her needing to say a word, “but very respectable. He’d give her a good life.”

He certainly would, assuming Eliza’s goal was to become a wealthy widow within the next handful of years. Regardless, Signa did her best to nod—about to ask what the rush was when Eliza was still so young—when a beautiful winter-blue gown of a dazzling silk with a fitted corset top caught her eye. Blythe looked every bit a princess as she swept onto the ballroom floor. She basked in the stares and the whispers of her name as though half starved for them. There was youth in her suntanned skin again. A glint in her lively eyes.

When she caught Signa staring, Blythe beamed and glided over to take her cousin by the hand. “Oh, this is magnificent,” she crooned, darting looks at the trays of sweets and champagne. She didn’t care one bit that she was stealing Signa away from Everett.

Everett cleared his throat. “Good evening, Miss Hawthorne.”

“Oh, hello, Everett.” Blythe didn’t look at him long enough to register his surprise at being addressed so informally but instead took in all the women in their gorgeous gowns as they buzzed about the ballroom. It was like a shimmering veil had been placed over the party as Signa watched Blythe observe the other women. Everything felt a thousand times lovelier. Signa had done the unspeakable to protect her cousin, but it had all been worth it. Deeply, irrevocably worth it.

Blythe’s hungry eyes scanned the crowd, lighting up when they landed upon a woman who was coming their way—Charlotte.

Signa’s chest tightened. She’d spent the past several months avoiding Charlotte and those questioning eyes of hers. She’d been in the woods the night of the fire, and if there was anyone who might disbelieve her story about Percy, it was Charlotte.

“Blythe, I am glad to see you well,” Charlotte said, beaming and beautiful as ever in a silk gown pink as a peony. She took Blythe by the hands, her smile thin but genuine. “Was your brother able to make it this evening?” And though her question was to Blythe, Charlotte’s eyes slid to Signa.

“There’s been no word from him yet,” Blythe said, her light dimming. “Though I’m sure that he’ll send word once he’s settled.”

“Of course he will.” Charlotte squeezed Blythe’s hands, though Signa could see the doubt in her face.

It was a relief when Elijah tapped a crystal flute to draw the crowd’s attention. The guests began to quiet, even Eliza, whose laughter ceased when Julius glared at her with a look that had Eliza promptly lowering her fan.

“We want to thank you all for joining us tonight,” began Elijah. Byron stood to his right, with Julius just behind him. “Grey’s has been in my family for four generations. We Hawthornes have run it with pride, and we have immense respect for the institution. So much respect that, as it’s grown beyond us, we were not so foolish as to believe we alone could keep up with it. As of this day, we would like to welcome His Grace, Julius Wakefield, into Grey’s, and to announce our official partnership with the Wakefield family. We’d also like you all to bear witness to this moment as we embark on a new legacy that we hope will continue for many years to come.”

Elijah held up a contract with such flourish that several guests began to clap. He presented it to Julius, who stepped forward with a quill in hand to sign the document. After adding his name, he addressed the clapping crowd with a practiced grin. “I look forward to this new venture,” he said, “and to our partnership!”

Elijah’s beaming could not have been any brighter. And though less enthused, Byron raised his glass for a toast. “Cheers to our partnership,” he said. “And to many more years to come.”

Signa raised her flute with them, as did the rest of the revelers, all clinking glasses with a bright exuberance that ignited the ballroom.

Julius made a show of finishing his champagne in one go. Three things happened then:

First came the gasping breath of Julius, whose eyes bulged as he clutched his chest and clawed at his throat.

Second came Eliza’s scream as the man fell, blood pooling in his mouth. Everett rushed for him with a desperate cry, and Signa followed.

And third came a chill that stole Signa’s breath and brought her to her knees at Julius’s side, where Death loomed over him. He looked down at Signa with a sigh. “You should be careful what you wish for, Little Bird.” And then he plucked Julius’s spirit straight from his body.

That spirit looked to Signa. “Ah,” Julius said, his head tilting as he observed her. “It seems you were telling the truth about those eyes.”

Oh, she could kill Death. Yet there was no chance to because the bodies around her began to slow, freezing in place. Death moved beside her at once, tense as a figure she’d not noticed stooped beside them—a young man with deep bronze skin and eyes of melted gold.

He inspected the shattered flute that had fallen out of Julius’s hand, picking up a broken shard and holding it up to the light. A few drops of liquid clung to it, and Signa’s breath ceased as she realized that the color was a tinge too blue. There was something wrong with the scent, too. Something bitter beneath the alcohol. Something that smelled of bitter almond.

It was no belladonna, but Signa knew poison when she encountered it.

“Fate is a funny thing, isn’t it?” The man’s voice sounded as ancient as the earth itself, the words such a low rumble that they caused the flutes of champagne to quake. Signa leaned back into Death’s grip as those golden eyes turned to her, unable to look away. She realized at once who they belonged to.

“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you, Signa Farrow,” Fate whispered. “It would appear that you have another murder to solve.”