Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(54)

“I said continue, boy!” Elijah’s voice sliced through the air like a blade. “Or has your head filled with so much air that you cannot hear me? Have you forgotten that you are dancing with your cousin right now? You have an obligation to her, not to some order slips. Do not ignore her for talk of work.”

They’d gotten a little practice in already, and what Signa wanted more than anything was for Percy to be happy. Seeing how much Grey’s meant to him made her want it for him; her dancing could wait. But before Signa could speak, Marjorie intervened.

“Sir, we were nearly finished,” she said. “Let Percy take care of this matter. Compared to a dance, it’s far more pressing—”

If Signa didn’t know better, she’d think from the chill that tore through the room that Elijah himself were Death. The look he flashed Marjorie rendered the entire room into silence. Signa didn’t dare to so much as breathe until Elijah took a seat in a plush emerald chair and folded one leg over the other.

He didn’t look at his brother again, and Byron instead gave Marjorie a look of warning that had her brushing a hand tenderly against her cheek, as if she was recalling where he’d slapped her.

“You will come to regret these choices of yours, brother.” Byron’s hostility carried across the room. “I thought when Lillian died that you would step up. Yet look at how she pulls you down with her even now, six feet under. That woman will be your death, mark my words. She is not worth this.”

“Had she agreed to be yours, you’d have thought otherwise. Now”—Elijah turned to Percy and Signa—“continue.”

Defeated, Marjorie slumped into her seat as Warwick set one hand upon Byron’s back. Byron shrugged him off, cursing his brother, but he didn’t struggle as he was ushered out of Thorn Grove. With no room left to argue, a scowling Percy took Signa by one arm. She winced as he yanked her back into position, fingers digging into her skin.

Again the music around them swelled, and they danced. This time, neither missed a step.





TWENTY-THREE





SIGNA SLIPPED AWAY LATE THAT AFTERNOON.

Marjorie had been so tense that, after missing countless keys on the piano, she’d ended the dance lesson early. Elijah hadn’t stayed for its entirety; he’d disappeared without a word halfway through one of the dances, with Warwick following behind him. It must have been difficult, Signa thought, to serve someone as volatile as Elijah.

Though she tried to speak with Percy after the lesson, he’d grabbed his gloves from the desk and his top hat from the rack, then disappeared out the door without once stopping to acknowledge her. Signa couldn’t blame him, not really. She’d been an infant when she’d lost her parents, and she hadn’t a single memory of them to miss. Percy was grown and full of memories when he’d lost his. And the worst part of it all was that one of his parents was still alive.

Signa didn’t pry or chase after him but gave Percy his space as she took the stairs, dragging her exhausted legs to the second story and down the dreary hall. Past the gilt-framed portrait of the redheaded man with his whippet and the one of a beaming Lillian that hung across from Blythe’s room. When Signa poked her head in, Blythe arched a fine blond brow but said nothing. She’d grown used to Signa’s frequent visits in the past weeks.

“Evening,” Signa said, keeping herself stoic so as to not reveal her worries over Blythe’s brittle frame. Her cousin shouldn’t still have been ingesting poison—she should have been getting better. And yet Blythe looked like a dried maple leaf, ready to crumble in the first gust of wind.

Blythe’s dinner of roasted chicken and buttered potatoes was on the table beside her bed. Though she wasn’t able to inspect all of Blythe’s meals, Signa checked as many as she could. She bit into the chicken with great care, then the potatoes, and sighed with relief. There was no belladonna in the food, nor was there any in the oolong.

“What happens if the food is poisoned?” Blythe asked with a frown. “Won’t you become just as sick as I am?”

“Not quite.” Signa set down the tea and handed the plate to Blythe. “I recognize the taste. I’ll spit it out before it can affect me.”

Blythe leaned back, placated by the answer. Signa, however, was anything but as she observed her cousin, so thin and frail. Now that Blythe knew to be cautious, Signa had hoped the girl would recover quickly. So used was Signa to her own fast recovery that she had no concept of how long or painful a process recovery was for others. Perhaps it was normal for improvement to come at a snail’s pace.

“I heard music.” Blythe dipped her head back against the pillows. Her lips were as white as her skin—worse than ever. “Is there another party?”

Signa took a seat upon the bed’s edge and grasped Blythe’s hand. The girl made no protest as Signa curled her fingers around hers, feeling for the pulse in her wrist.

Slow. It was so, so slow.

“I was learning to dance,” Signa offered, keeping her face free of worry. If Blythe was to get better, then she needed to believe she could. “I’m hoping to debut soon if I can convince Miss Hargreaves that I’m ready. You’ll be joining in the season as well, won’t you?” It was a shiny bobble she dangled at the end of a rod, hoping to give Blythe something to look forward to.