Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(38)

Beside her, Death set down his tea. How do you feel about this woman? I could infect her with a light plague, perhaps. Or we could give her the pox? Blemished skin may do her vanity some good.

Recognizing the levity in his voice, she fixed him with a brief, angry look, to which he sighed. Fine, ruin my fun.

Between Charlotte sitting on one side of her and Death on the other, it was a fruitless endeavor to attempt to focus. Diana and Eliza dominated the conversation, and when they noticed Signa had gone some time without even a murmured response to any gossip, Eliza turned her flat brown eyes to her to pry: “Have you a suitor already, Miss Farrow?”

Death stood and loomed over Eliza, so close that Signa’s throat grew tight. Don’t mind me, he said. Go ahead and answer. Is there someone you’ve got your eye on, Little Bird?

Her fists clenched. She wanted with everything in her to demand that he leave, but she had no way to convey that with the others scrutinizing her. Noticing her struggle, Death said, You should be able to respond to me, you know. If you hear me, I’d wager you can respond.

She tried, eager to tell him to leave her alone long enough for her to glean information about the Hawthornes, or at the very least to find a way to speak to Charlotte in private. Yet as hard as she strained to send those words to him, he didn’t react as though he could hear her.

“Do you intend to make your debut here, Miss Farrow?” Charlotte asked, a wary edge to her voice.

Signa held her porcelain teacup in both hands as she stared at her friend. Despite the nerves, despite what Charlotte knew and could do to undermine her… she was still relieved that Charlotte was present. That she’d finally found her old friend again and could see firsthand that she was safe and healthy and beautiful. “I’m hoping to join this season, yes,” Signa told her, liking the way the announcement felt when she spoke it aloud.

Eliza clapped her hands. “Oh, you must have a party to celebrate! Invite us, and we’ll ensure you know everything about every man in town—” She clutched her throat, losing her breath for a moment when Death stepped around her.

Will I be invited to your party? I do love a good dance.

He would be invited to nothing, and though Signa wished she could tell him as much, she kept her smile and asked Eliza, “What men are thought to be joining this season?”

The commotion at the table was immediate. Eliza leaned in, brandishing her fork as she spoke. “I believe you’ll want to keep your eye on my cousin Lord Everett Wakefield.”

Charlotte perked up at the name, her eyes brightening. “He’s arrived?” she asked, to which Eliza nodded.

“Just three days ago. He’ll be joining us through the summer to see if he might find a suitable wife. I do wonder, too, who your cousin Percy might seek out, Miss Farrow. He’s set to inherit the family business, and its fortune, you know.”

Eliza was correct, assuming Elijah didn’t ruin his prospects. Signa thought back to two nights prior, when she’d watched Elijah shove a cake into his son’s mouth. She couldn’t imagine Percy’s embarrassment, couldn’t imagine how it must feel to have a father lose himself so fully in his mourning.

The Hawthornes were fraying at the seams. One needed only to tug, and they would split entirely.

When Signa reached for another scone, Diana drew the plate away with a thin smile that sharpened Signa’s spine. She straightened, drawing her hand away in doubt.

Just eat it. Death’s words were cold. If you’re hungry, eat the scone.

But Death had no hold in society, no knowledge or stake in its politics.

Don’t drink or eat too much, or too little. Only the right amount. Those were the lessons that her etiquette book taught. Signa just hadn’t known what qualified as too much. Now she knew it was three scones. So despite Death’s push, she didn’t take another, even when Diana began prying again into the business of the Hawthornes, hunting for gossip she would undoubtedly spread. There was no room to relax in this conversation. She was more on her guard than ever, judging every inch of her body—from where she rested her pinkie to how quick her breathing was. Did she sip too quickly? Was the amount of sugar she added to her tea appropriate?

Exhaustion weighted her shoulders; socializing was going to take more getting used to than she’d anticipated.

For so long Signa had waited for this day; waited for the time when she would sit and chat with her friends as part of high society. For the time when others would show interest in her, and she might finally have the company she’d spent so long yearning for. Yet when Marjorie returned to the parlor, it felt as though an eternity had passed, and all Signa wanted was freedom and a good nap.

Charlotte was the last of the ladies to depart, and much to Signa’s surprise, she refused to linger. Her eyes skimmed over Signa as a quick “I’m glad to see that you’re doing well” passed her lips before she grasped her skirts and followed Marjorie out the door.

Tears burned Signa’s eyes. Charlotte had recognized her. She’d recognized her, and yet… It meant nothing. Perhaps all that time together—all that friendship—had meant more to Signa than it had to Charlotte.

She’d forgotten that Death stood behind her until he grumbled, “Two of those girls behave as though they’ve just been let off their leading strings.”

Swiping her eyes, Signa pivoted to him. “What are you still doing here?”