Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(67)

“I’ll stay with her,” Signa said, thankful for quick reflexes as she got the basin to Blythe just in time, helping again to smooth the girl’s hair back from her face. Her own stomach was cramping, nausea rolling over her as cold sweat prickled her skin. She refused to let on in front of Percy; the nausea would pass soon enough. “We’ll need water,” she told him with stern authority. “Go ask the kitchen staff for some bread. She needs to eat something easy on her stomach once we’ve gotten through the worst of this. And please, be discreet.”

Percy nodded and cast one last look at his sister. She’d never seen his cheeks so hollowed out, or his eyes so empty. He turned on his heel without so much as another word, the sound of his boots clicking as he disappeared down the hall.



It was late into the evening when Blythe began to settle. Signa hadn’t been certain that her cousin would make it when Blythe’s labored breathing tightened and her skin became feverish. But somewhere during those long hours, there’d been a turning point. Blythe’s flushed cheeks cooled, and her stomach was no longer so eager to empty itself. She lay back in the bed, her hair pulled into a loose braid Signa had woven between emptying the basin and fetching Blythe more water.

Blythe’s breathing was deep now, and her eyes were finally managing to stay open.

“Are you with me?” Signa asked, easing her shoulders when Blythe nodded. Picking up a loaf of sourdough from the tray Percy had brought them, Signa tore off a small piece and handed it to Blythe. “Try to eat this. You’re going to feel weak for a while, but I think you’re going to be all right. We’re just going to have to be careful with whatever you put into your body.”

The bread slipped from Blythe’s fingers; she was too weak to hold it. She faltered at the realization, tears welling, but Signa would have none of that. She picked up the loaf, broke it into even smaller bites, then set a small piece in Blythe’s mouth. Piece after piece Signa fed her, letting Blythe’s head fall upon her shoulder, letting the girl’s tears flow freely until she became too exhausted to eat another bite or cry another tear, and she fell asleep.

As Blythe slept, Signa smoothed a hand over her cousin’s hair, willing strength into her. “Don’t worry,” Signa whispered. “I’ll find whoever did this to you. I promise.”

From the threshold, a quiet voice said, “How were you able to help her?” Marjorie was watching them with glistening eyes.

She looked to the glass on the bedside table, the evidence still there. “Just an old remedy I found in the library,” Signa whispered, not knowing what else to say.

Signa understood Marjorie could likely banish her if she wanted to. She could deem Signa a witch and throw her out of Thorn Grove. But instead, her eyes softened. “You should get some rest, too.”

Signa’s skin prickled at the mere suggestion of leaving Blythe alone, or in the hands of another. But for now, Death’s presence had dissipated from the room, his warning retracted. Again, Blythe had been spared.

Whether Signa had been able to save her one final time, they could only hope.

Signa eased Blythe’s head down upon the pillows before slipping from the bed. On the bedside table she’d left small pieces of bread and two glasses of water. In one of the glasses she’d added ground caraway seeds to help settle Blythe’s stomach. For now, it was all she could do.

“The best thing we can do for her is let her sleep,” Marjorie told her, and Signa knew it was not her place to argue. Even if she’d helped Blythe, Signa was still little more than a stranger to the Hawthornes. She was also a woman, and a young one at that. No matter how much she wanted to hole up in Blythe’s room to watch over her at all hours, such a thing would never be allowed when the family had proper doctors employed.

So for now she took her skirts in hand and followed Marjorie out the door, letting the woman lead her through the candlelit hall and back to her own room.

Marjorie slowed, forcing them to linger in the hallway. “You are fitting into Thorn Grove better than I ever expected,” she said. The darkness of the night covered the memory of Marjorie’s injury well. In the dim glow of the iron sconces, all Signa could make out was a fading bruise upon her bottom lip.

“Thank you,” Signa said before she allowed herself to relive the memory of seeing that bruise inflicted. Her hands clenched at her sides.

“It’s been a pleasure to see you getting along well with other ladies your age.” The heels of Marjorie’s boots tapped loudly against the hardwood floors. “You wish to debut this season, don’t you?”

It was perhaps a strange time to be talking about such a thing, but Death’s presence in Thorn Grove had been long and tedious, and Signa had learned that when Death claimed your every waking moment, mundane conversations felt like a reprieve. Perhaps Marjorie felt the same.

“I don’t mean to bother anyone with it,” Signa said. “I’ll be leaving Thorn Grove for a home of my own around the same time. I can debut once I’m gone—”

“There’s no need to apologize, Signa. You’ve been doing a wonderful job with your lessons, and I think having your season this spring is a good idea. Besides, no one will stand for you debuting yourself without any proper chaperone. It’s unheard of.”

Signa sucked in her cheeks. “You think it’s a good idea?”