Belladonna

BALANCED ATOP SIGNA’S HEAD WAS A BOOK SO HEAVY IT WAS GIVING her a migraine.

“Balance, Signa,” Marjorie instructed her. “Grace. Walk with grace.”

From the corner, lounging comfortably upon a green velvet settee, Percy laughed. Given that he had no business being there, Marjorie flashed him a look, but Percy was far from vexed. He’d made it a point to announce that he’d come simply to watch his cousin attempt to learn manners—and that he was taking a great deal of amusement in those attempts. There was, however, something troubled about the furrow of his red brows, and the way his eyes flickered to the maids who rushed about the halls to set up for the party that would begin that evening.

He and Marjorie pretended not to notice them, so Signa followed suit, understanding why the party might be a sore spot for Percy.

“Grace, Signa,” Percy repeated, drawing the word out with an overly airy tone. Signa never had a brother but imagined that if she did, he’d be every bit as annoying as Percy. It was almost as though he knew her politeness was a charade. Like he could see it in her face and was trying to pluck the truth out of her. She did everything in her power to ignore him, hoping to maintain the illusion that she was a respectable young woman.

Though after her run-in with Elijah the night prior, it seemed unlikely the master of Thorn Grove would care what she did or how she behaved. Assuming she didn’t burn the manor to the ground, she doubted he’d bat an eye at her strange behaviors.

She was reminded of how Percy had waited atop the stairs observing his father with such longing. It was such a different version of him than she saw now—a relaxed Percy who kept a careless manner, a proper young gentleman without any troubles.

What had Elijah meant when he’d said he’d failed his son too many times? Signa was so distracted by her deluge of thoughts that she tripped over the Persian rug and watched the encyclopedia tumble from her head to the floor. Under her breath, she cursed, not realizing she’d said the word aloud until Percy doubled over with laughter and Marjorie threw her hands up in frustration.

“Language, Signa! I swear, you both are impossible today!”

Though Signa had the sense to blush and bow her head with an apology, Percy smiled coolly at the governess, far too charming for his own good. Signa fought the urge to roll her eyes as Marjorie’s resolve crumbled beneath the boy’s grin. The governess sighed and scooped the book from the floor.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, Signa, but you are helpless.” The comment was simply a fact, not meant to be unkind. “And you, Percy. I thought I told you yesterday to find something useful to do with your time.”

He folded his hands behind him, chin proud. “Apologies, Miss Hargreaves. I just wanted to assure myself that my dear cousin felt welcome here.”

The longer Marjorie glared at Percy, the more her eyes softened until, eventually, she relented. “Oh fine. Since it’s obvious we’ll get no further in our lessons, you may pay a visit to your cousin’s room, Signa.”

Percy perked up. “You’re going to visit Blythe? Shall I join you?”

“Of course you should,” Marjorie decided for them both. “Take some pastries from breakfast up to her. I’m sure that’ll make her happy.”

Signa prayed that Marjorie was right. She was going to need a peace offering after the way her first visit with Blythe had gone.

Percy matched Signa’s pace, as eager to see his sister as she was. “If she’s sick with the same illness that took my mother, the last thing she needs is to be holed away in her room,” he said as they made their way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Everyone keeps telling her to rest. I’m sure she’s bored senseless.”

Signa didn’t have to imagine the boredom or the loneliness it brought. If this visit went well, perhaps Blythe would allow her to visit more often.

“Did she and your mother both have the same symptoms?” Signa kept her voice low.

“Exactly the same, yes. Though Blythe’s tongue hasn’t yet begun to fester with sores, and her hallucinations are milder than my mother’s were.” Percy’s tone had slipped to something colder, something pained, and Signa knew better than to press no matter how much she wanted to. It was a testament to her growth, she thought, that she was able to be sympathetic to the fact not everyone was as comfortable speaking about the dead as she was.

She listened while Percy shifted topics to rambling on about the portraits they passed, pointing out the male ancestors who had been in charge of Thorn Grove prior to his father. His chest was proud as he spoke, shoulders squared and confident. “What amazing men they were, to build such an empire.”

Signa didn’t think it was worth noting that a gentleman’s club offered nothing different from the tea she’d had with the ladies that morning with its drinks, food, and gossip with people of a similar social status—only she hadn’t paid a membership fee to participate. Regardless, she understood the pride in Percy’s eyes. Grey’s had done the Hawthornes well, and he was meant to continue that legacy.

After passing what must have been a dozen portraits of scowling men in suits, they knocked quietly upon Blythe’s door and waited for permission to enter. Nothing in Blythe’s sitting room had moved so much as a hair. The air was heady, pressing upon the two as they stepped inside and onto the plush rug. Though Blythe lived, her room was that of a ghost’s.

A budding pressure in Signa’s chest eased when she saw Blythe sitting upright in her bed, leaning against the headboard. Sick as the girl was, Blythe didn’t scowl at Signa as she had last time. Rather, she looked to her brother and beamed.

“Percy! Where have you been? I’ve nearly begun to count the threads of the curtains, I’ve been so bored. What’s that you’ve got there?”

Her grin stretched when he waved a scone at her, and she whipped out her hand to take it. “God, I’ve been waiting for them to make the lemon ones again.” She bit into it and groaned as though it was the first thing she’d eaten all week.

Percy set the remaining pastries down and ruffled Blythe’s straw-blond hair before pulling up a small iron chair to sit beside her. “I’ll tell the kitchen to make them more often if you like them so much.”

Signa waited at the threshold of Blythe’s room, hands folded before her. She lingered there as Percy settled in, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he looked his sister over—her pale, bony frame. Dead, dry hair. The bags under her eyes, and lips that were as pale as the crumbs she brushed from them. Percy took hold of her hand, so fragile a thing, and Signa noticed for the first time the starkness between them. Where Percy was freckled, Blythe was porcelain. Where his hair burned like a summer fire, hers was void of color. What they shared was the sternness of their father’s mouth and the grim way their eyes squinted at the corners, like they were either always contemplating, as in Percy’s case, or perpetually annoyed, in Blythe’s. As different as they looked, when side by side there was no denying they were of shared blood.

“Is she going to come in,” Blythe asked, “or will she continue to stand there and let in the draft?”

Percy leaned toward his sister conspiratorially, though his words were loud enough for Signa to hear. “Careful, Bee. You must remember to speak quietly when there are skittish fawns about. We wouldn’t want to spook them.”

Squaring her shoulders, Signa walked into the room with her chin held high. “I am no fawn.”

The girl turned to her with a smile that nearly snipped Signa’s breath straight from her lungs. The feeling was similar to what Signa had felt the first time she’d seen Blythe—like she and Blythe were linked by an unbreakable string. This must have been the connection that Death said happened when she’d unknowingly spared Blythe’s life.

She barely knew this sickly thing who struggled to leave her bed, yet whose gaze could impale a person. All the same, Signa felt compelled toward her. She didn’t know what it meant, or why she had these abilities. But what she did know was that she’d do everything in her power to save Blythe’s life, and that started with figuring out the source of the poison.

“I want to apologize for the other night. It was… rude of me to say what I did. I’ve never been eloquent.” Signa balanced herself atop the far corner of the bed, opposite Percy. She was ready to spring back up and flee at any moment.

The ice in Blythe’s eyes melted as she licked the remaining sugar from her fingertips. “You ought to work on that.” Her tongue was the faintest shade of pink. Almost white.

Goose bumps crawled across Signa’s arms like spiders, and her stomach dropped before she noticed that the chill in the room was from an open window, and not because Death was lingering nearby. His absence might have given Signa hope, had she not known that Blythe was on borrowed time with a murderer still on the hunt.

“I won’t thank you for saving me the other day, given that it was your fault I had an accident in the first place.” Blythe’s words were as cutting as Signa remembered them, each one its own knife. “But I won’t refuse your company, either, for I’ve never had a cousin before. Will you be with us long?”

It was Percy who answered. “Father had the modiste prepare her a wardrobe for the season.”

Blythe’s face darkened. “I suppose I should be glad someone is getting his attention. Though if you are in need of gowns, you could have taken mine. I’ve no use for them anymore, and too many will go unworn.”

“Blythe—”

“Oh hush, Percy. I don’t mean it like that. They no longer fit me, and I doubt my body will ever be back to what it once was.” With each word, the bite in her voice lessened. “Now tell me about work. Are there any updates?”

His grip on Blythe’s hand tightened, and Signa got the impression that there was something more to this back-and-forth language of siblings that went beyond her understanding. “Uncle is on his way here right now to talk sense into the man, but I fear Father believes himself beyond reproach.”

Blythe clucked her disapproval. “Surely, he’ll bend one of these days. You must keep trying.”

“He’s not bent since the day you took ill, Blythe—”

“And when was that, exactly?” Signa hurried to ask, trying not to shrink under the weight of the eyes that turned toward her in surprise. “I ask merely out of curiosity. When did you fall ill?”

Blythe feigned a gasp. “I’m ill? Heavens, I’m surprised you noticed. No one dares to speak of it before me.” She made a quiet, amused hum in the back of her throat before leaning her head upon the pillows. “About a month after my mother died.”

Whoever was behind it, they’d wasted no time. Signa peered at a small pile of chocolates on Blythe’s bedside table, next to a cup of tea. She crossed to that table and took one of the chocolates, trying to be discreet as she bit into it. Signa couldn’t say whether she was relieved or disappointed to discover that it wasn’t anything but normal chocolate, but she did take another bite. Her eyes fell to the tea next, and Signa reached for it before she could feign an excuse.

Blythe shot up, positively lethal. “Don’t you dare! That’s my medicine.”

When Blythe stretched her hand out to take the dainty porcelain cup, Signa backed out of her reach and took a tentative sip. That was when she tasted it—barely more than a hint of the bitter berry, not enough to be noticeable to anyone who didn’t have a tongue familiar with the taste.

This was it. This was how someone was keeping Blythe ill.

The cup was still nearly full, the liquid cold. “How long have you been taking this medicine?”

“Since the day I took ill,” Blythe answered, glaring. “It hurts my stomach if I drink it too quickly. Put it down.”

She didn’t. Instead, Signa walked to the window and dumped the tea out.

“Are you mad?” Percy ripped the porcelain cup from Signa’s hand. “For all we know, that could very well be what’s keeping my sister alive!”

“On the contrary, it could very well be what’s keeping her sick.” Signa didn’t want to let on that she knew what was happening, lest the killer find out and try other tactics. “Who gave this to you?”

Blythe’s lips curled down and deep lines furrowed in her forehead. “My maid brings it every morning.”

“And what’s her name?”

“Elaine. Though I don’t see why—”

Signa recognized the name at once as the servant who had been helping her dress. “Who prescribed this for you?”

“One of her doctors.” Percy folded his arms across his chest. “And dare I say one more competent than you.”

Even Signa knew that no doctor would prescribe belladonna in anything. Someone was sneaking it in—perhaps not in every cup but in many.

“I know this might sound strange,” she began tentatively, “but, Blythe, I don’t believe that you’re suffering from any disease.”

Percy took Signa’s wrist in his grasp, gripping so hard that she flinched, certain she would bruise. “Do not fill my sister’s head with nonsense. It’s the same illness that took our mother—”

Signa tore her arm away and looked him hard in the eye. “This isn’t medicine. I know because I’ve tasted it before. It’s belladonna, from the berries that grow in the woods near here. Someone is poisoning her.”

Blythe didn’t move for a long moment, her mouth half open. “Percy,” she began, and her brother only shook his head.

“One of the doctors would have realized it by now if it was poison.” He was adamant in this belief, each word stressed. “Signa is merely guessing.”

“I’m not guessing anything,” she said with every bit of conviction she could summon. “I recognize the taste. And if you don’t believe me, see for yourself. Blythe, the next time your medicine is brought to you, don’t drink it. But don’t refuse it, either, for you might alert someone of your suspicions. Wait until no one is around, and then find a safe place to dispose of it. Percy, you should be careful, too. Who’s to say you’re not next?”

His skepticism remained, evident in the creases between his brows.

“Shall I ask the doctor?” There was a fragility to Blythe’s voice, but otherwise she was handling this better than Signa expected. “What about Father? He deserves to know, doesn’t he? If there’s a chance that what happened to Mother was no accident?”

Signa remembered how Elijah had shoved cake into his son’s face, and the bags under his eyes, and how he was haunted and unable to sleep. His behavior was too erratic, too unpredictable. It wouldn’t be safe to trust him, nor did she think it wise for anyone else—including Blythe’s current doctor—to know that they’d caught on. Not to mention how suspicious it was that not a single one of Blythe’s doctors had realized what was happening.

“The best thing we can do to help your father is to protect the two of you,” Signa said. “Which means that, for now, this secret stays between us. Be careful with your meals. No jam. No berry reductions on your roasts. Drink your tea, but throw it out if there’s anything odd about the taste. You must eat, both of you, and you must not rouse suspicion. But take extra precautions.” She didn’t dare mention that Sylas knew their secret as well. It didn’t feel wise to mention him, and Signa still could use his help and his connection with Thorn Grove’s servants—especially now that there was a lead.

Elaine.

Blythe sighed and let her head fall deep into the pillows, curling into the sheets as though to make herself smaller.

“We’ll figure this out,” Signa promised her, putting as much gusto behind the words as possible, trying to convince herself as well. “We’re going to put a stop to this, and you’re going to be okay. I won’t let you die, Blythe.”

She meant it. Blythe was given a second chance for a reason. Signa had linked herself to Blythe’s fate, and she’d do everything in her power to beat Death once and for all.