Belladonna
: Chapter 9

MARJORIE WAS TRUE TO HER WORD THAT SIGNA’S MOURNING WEAR would soon be a thing of the past.

The modiste arrived at dawn, dragging a trunk full of fabrics into Signa’s suite.

Signa had gotten hardly a wink of sleep, and—coupled with the past several days of traveling and the fact she’d spent the previous night being haunted—there was little she wanted more than to curl up in bed for the remainder of the day.

Until she remembered that today marked the start of her lessons.

“Come now, Signa. Only the dead sleep at such an hour.” Marjorie sighed as she followed behind the modiste. “The master won’t have you walking around looking like the grim reaper. It’s time we add a bit of color into that wardrobe of yours and prepare you for the season.”

Signa roused like the dead resurrected, limbs heavy and her eyes stinging against the waking sun. It felt like only minutes had passed since she’d fallen into bed. Only minutes since she’d had the misfortune of meeting Lillian’s spirit. And yet she summoned all her wakefulness at the promise of new clothing and shuffled into the sitting room. A pleasant young woman who Marjorie introduced as Elaine, Signa’s new lady’s maid, took to combing Signa’s dark waves out of her face as the modiste fussed over her waist with a measuring tape.

The modiste was old, with as many wrinkles as the years she’d lived carved into her face. Beady brown eyes were covered by round spectacles, though they seemed to be of little help, given how closely the woman bent toward Signa, stooping to read the numbers on the tape.

“You are too thin, girl,” the woman tutted. “Nothing more than a twig with breasts.”

Signa turned toward the window, determined not to let them see the shame upon her face. Her sheer nightgown did little to disguise the sharpness of her ribs, and she brushed anxious hands over them. Marjorie glanced at them, as well, those too-sharp bones protruding from her skin. Signa had done what she could, living with Magda, but she was too young to access her inheritance on her own, and the modest allowance Magda had been given from it went straight to the gambling dens. That woman likely would have been happy, should Signa have starved to death. All she’d cared about—all most of her guardians had ever seemed to care about—was how to claim a piece of Signa’s fortune.

“Leave room in the gowns,” Marjorie told the seamstress, looking away from Signa’s ribs and pretending to busy herself by helping Elaine fix her hair. “She’ll be baby cheeked in no time.”

The seamstress grunted, satisfied. Once she’d jotted down Signa’s measurements in a leather pocket notebook, she held swatches of fabrics in a wide array of colors to Signa’s face. They worked before an ornate silver mirror, which Signa used to sneak glances at herself, half expecting to see her reflection begin to move on its own as it had the previous night. There was soil beneath her fingernails still, as well as on the soles of her feet. It was all she could do to feign ignorance when the modiste inspected them with a frown.

Though Signa knew little of the cost to have a wardrobe made, she could imagine. And it was far more than any guardian had spent on her, ever. Elijah truly must have wanted Signa out of her mourning wear. While Marjorie gasped over muted tones like blush, champagne, and periwinkle, Signa’s eyes strayed to greens dark as the forest and reds deep and rich as blood. Yet she said nothing of her opinions, for what did she know of fashion? If she wanted to fit in with society, surely she should trust Marjorie to make the decisions and settle for the dull tones without complaint.

The modiste left behind a gown upon her departure—a pale yellow day dress, with ribbons of blue and lace of white. Signa wanted to balk at its gaudiness, but she lifted her arms as Elaine helped her into it. If this was the style, it didn’t matter whether she felt it suited her or how comfortable she was.

“This will have to do for now,” Marjorie said as Elaine laced the corset. “At least until your own are made.”

The kindest word Signa could think of for the dress was hideous. It was also incessantly cheery, given the state of Thorn Grove. She may have looked like a walking banana, yet she minded her tongue and did not complain once it was on, asking only, “And when will those dresses be ready?”

Marjorie’s laugh was polite and demure, a textbook example of how A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette stated it should be. Signa made a mental note to practice mirroring it, later. “The modiste makes quick work. Now come, it’s time for lessons. The master would have my head if he saw us dawdling.”

From what she’d seen of Elijah, Signa very much doubted that. Regardless, she followed Marjorie out of the room and down the hall, trying to ignore the prickling of her skin that came from the feeling of being followed by the eyes of several dozen portraits.

The prickling stopped once they’d descended to the lowest level, and Signa was relieved to find that Thorn Grove felt like a new place that morning. Gone were the music and ball gowns that had filled the halls, and the laughter that had lingered close behind. Left in their place was the quiet sweeping of a broom upon marble.

“Remember, no dawdling,” Marjorie prodded when Signa lingered for too long upon the staircase, studying the odd decor that prevailed throughout the estate. The staircase that looked as though it was carved from a tree. Iron sconces shaped like bird’s nests. And, as Signa kept looking, one also shaped like the head of a fox, and a chandelier with arms that looked like spikes.

Whoever designed this place was an odd soul. A soul, Signa decided, that had been begging for this house to be haunted.

They’d certainly gotten their wish.

Signa could still feel the press of exhaustion on her body from the previous night’s haunting as she followed Marjorie into the parlor—a room as grand as any other in the estate but perhaps better lit with its two bay windows. The walls were a buttery yellow even brighter than Signa’s awful dress, and they were perfect for capturing the light. Feminine touches adorned the room, entirely out of sync with the more masculine second floor. There were elegant whorls carved into the molding, a bright patterned rug, and dainty floral cushions with lacy trim. It was upon those cushions that Percy and Blythe sat, sipping steaming cups of tea.

Blythe looked no better than she had the night prior, with her sallow skin and sunken frame, but there was a sharpness in her eyes. A will to sit upon the couch and sip her tea and not be stuck alone in her room, even though her hands trembled every time she lifted the cup to her lips.

“My dear sister said she awoke feeling rejuvenated,” Percy said the moment Marjorie’s surprised eyes rested upon the girl. “I thought some fresh air and company might do her well.”

Marjorie’s mouth formed a tight line. Rather than argue, though, Marjorie turned and opened the windows, letting in the fresh breeze. “Very well, then. Perhaps you’re right.”

Signa stood straighter in the presence of her cousins. One day at Thorn Grove, and already she felt like she’d made such a horrid first impression on them both. She wanted to prove herself to them, though was struggling to do so between her heavy eyelids and the urge to yawn.

Stubborn, awful old spirits. She didn’t want to think about Lillian, or the dead, or anything other than her lessons and the new family she was now living with. She wanted to study, to impress them, and to prove her readiness to debut into the next phase of her life. One where she hoped to have far more connections with the living, and far fewer with the dead.

Batting her hair behind her shoulders, she refocused herself and smiled at her cousins. “I’m glad to see you’re both well this morning.”

“You as well,” Percy said while Blythe set her teacup upon its saucer and balanced it on her lap.

“Have you had a governess before, Miss Farrow?” Marjorie asked as she took a seat upon a tiny round pouf in front of Signa.

“Given her manners, I would assume not,” Blythe muttered under her breath, taking another sip when Marjorie flashed her a look.

“Are you claiming that yours are any better?” asked the governess.

Blythe scrunched up her face as Signa felt a rush of shame, hot and searing. She’d be damned, though, if she let Blythe see that her words had struck. “I’ve had a governess in the past,” Signa told them. “… On and off.” Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Whatever Marjorie thought of that answer, she didn’t betray it. “What about lessons?”

Rather than admit how much time had passed since she’d had a proper lesson, Signa said, “I can read, and I know my lettering. Arithmetic, too.” Only the basics, given that no one had ever stayed around long enough to teach her more than that.

Marjorie’s lips curled into a smile that one could envy. “And what about music?”

Not wanting to give her cousins any additional fuel to taunt her with by admitting she’d rarely played, Signa said, “I suppose I’m a wonderful listener.”

Blythe coughed into her drink while Percy nudged her with his elbow, hushing her between his own snickering.

Marjorie ignored both Hawthornes. “Duly noted. Why don’t we begin there, then? With sight-reading and lessons on the piano.”

Frustrating as it was, Signa had been taunted enough throughout her life to ignore her cousins. She nodded and instead let herself imagine sitting in the manor she would one day own, seated at the bench of a pianoforte, playing with a perfect grace. Her daydream was short-lived, however, as a wave of coolness jolted over Signa’s spine.

“Miss Farrow?” Marjorie’s voice was distant.

Signa could not see Lillian, but the faint sound of crying fought to steal her attention.

No spirits, Signa told herself, pretending she didn’t hear it. Think of your future. Of the work you must put into debuting. Normal people do not speak to the dead, Signa.

Yet she couldn’t stop listening. It seemed the others heard the sound, too, for Blythe had gone deathly still. The porcelain cup slipped from her hands and dropped onto her lap, hot tea staining her dress. Percy sat up with a jolt, as did Marjorie.

“Heavens, Miss Hawthorne!” The governess motioned for Percy. “Help your sister back to her room and fetch Elaine. Blythe will need to change into a new dress. And while you’re at it, find a better use of your time, too, Percy. You both are far too distracting.”

Marjorie waited for Percy to help his sister—whose eyes were still dazed and anxious—out of the room before she turned to Signa. “Now then, never mind all that, and pay no mind to the sound. It’s merely the wind.” She took Signa by the hand and led her to the sleek black bench of a beautiful grand piano that likely cost as much as Aunt Magda’s entire house, if not more. There wasn’t so much as a trace of dust on it. “It’s always louder this time of year. Sounds like the devil himself is stomping about outside.”

Signa knew full well that the wind had nothing to do with the sound, though she had no choice but to nod. She sat, fighting the urge to make herself small in her seat as Marjorie straightened her back and lengthened her neck, placing Signa’s hands at the starting position upon the keys.

“Now,” Marjorie said, “let’s begin by practicing your scales.” Signa’s bones protested holding such a stiff posture, already aching. But if this was what it took to bring her vision to life and secure her place in society, she would do it. Signa pressed down upon the first key and had to swallow a grimace when her finger came away wet. Every inch of her stiffened, muscles coiling tight, for there was nothing on the piano. Yet when she lifted her finger, she saw mud caked upon it, and tiny worms sprouting from between the keys.

“Your scales, Signa,” Marjorie urged without any acknowledgment that she could see what was happening beneath her pupil’s fingertips. She didn’t see that Signa’s feet were sinking in dirt that wasn’t there or that her fingers became a perch for the worms to curl themselves around.

Lillian’s message was clear as the day—Signa needed to hurry and find the garden, or this spirit would never rest.

But until then, Signa steeled herself and pressed down upon the muddied keys. She refused to stop playing.

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