Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(7)
“My orders are to bring you back without delay,” said the coachman. “We’ve got a bit of a journey ahead of us. Have you got any belongings?”
“Just a trunk, sir. It’s right inside. I can get it—”
The driver waved away her words with a smile so bold it was alarming. Signa couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such an honest smile. “Nonsense, miss. It’s my pleasure.” Unused to such politeness, she could only nod as he toddled toward the house and wonder whether she was meant to stand there or get into the coach.
Signa didn’t have to wait long for her answer; a cough from the coach signaled that the driver hadn’t come alone. A boy younger than anyone she’d expected—in his early twenties at most—emerged from the carriage. The young man was dressed handsomely, fitted in a frock of the deepest black and matching leather boots. He was tall as a willow and broad as an oak, with a full head of soot-black hair that curled behind his ears. His skin was tanned from the sun, and there was a whisper of freckles dusted beneath eyes that reminded Signa of smoke—a pale and wispy gray, with a halo of dark coal around each iris. He had a small scar cut diagonally through the arch of his left brow.
“Just look at the gold lining on that carriage! Of course my granddaughter, Lillian, felt the need to show off her wealth. It’s not as though the wretched girl ever thought to help me out. She’s a silly, awful thing, just like you.” Magda’s words dripped with bitterness as she circled the boy, but for once Signa didn’t care.
There were two rules Signa knew about spirits—the first was that Magda could haunt only the land where she had died, and the second was that should her corpse be burned, her spirit would be torn unwillingly from the earth.
It was the first rule that relieved Signa, for it meant that she would never have to see her dreaded aunt again.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I hope your journey was comfortable.” Signa cleared her throat and gathered every bit of politeness she could. She even attempted a curtsy in her heavy bombazine gown and black feathered veil, which was itchy and the only attire she seemed to wear lately.
The young man didn’t return her formality. He cut a severe look around the withered porch and the unkempt garden, too full and crowded to walk through without stepping on overgrown weeds. “I’m Sylas Thorly, and I’m here on behalf of Mr. Elijah Hawthorne to escort a Miss Farrow back to his estate, Thorn Grove.” His voice was the low rumble of an approaching storm. “I assume you’re she?”
Having expected a Hawthorne, Signa noted his name with interest. “I am.”
“Wonderful,” he drawled, taking more interest in smoothing out the dark leather gloves that fit his hands like a second skin than he did in her. “Into the carriage we go. It’s as Albert said, we’ve quite the journey ahead of us.”
“If you need to rest, I could make tea—”
Sylas adjusted his cravat and paid her little mind. “I’d prefer we not linger at this hovel for a second longer than necessary.”
She clenched her teeth but pressed on. “What about the horses? Do they need watering?”
Sylas tipped his head toward the sky and squinted. When he inhaled a long breath, Signa got the sense that he was searching the clouds for his lost patience and was coming up short. “You’re kind. But the horses have informed me that they, too, would prefer not to linger at the risk of catching a disease. Come now, Miss Farrow.” Sylas motioned toward the carriage, offering a gloved hand to help Signa into it.
The carriage was small, and Signa had to keep her tense body pressed against one side so she didn’t accidentally bump Sylas’s knees, which were spread widely and far too comfortably in such tight quarters. A moment later—when her travel chest had been loaded and Albert had climbed back onto the coach—the snap of the reins sounded and the horses took off.
Sylas’s smoky eyes found Signa’s briefly before he picked up a newspaper and spread it across his lap. Uncertain of what she was meant to do, she looked for another copy or anything else she might read, but found nothing. “You’re not a Hawthorne, then?” Signa asked, feeling it necessary to say something when before company. From what she’d gathered in a book her mother had left behind for her, A Lady’s Guide to Beauty and Etiquette, it was scandalous for an unmarried woman to be left alone with any man. Yet, given the grand carriage and all she’d heard, there was no doubt the Hawthornes were wealthy and of high society, and thus quite respectable. Perhaps, then, Signa’s book was out of fashion? “Could Mr. Hawthorne not come for me himself? Or Lillian?”
Sylas blew out a quiet breath and stretched his long legs the best he could. He was far too tall for such a space, having to sit hunched like a crow perched upon a log. “Lillian is dead and Mr. Hawthorne’s daughter, Blythe, is sick. So no, they couldn’t.”
Signa stiffened. Death, it seemed, had beaten her to Thorn Grove.
“I’m sorry no one was there to see you off,” Sylas muttered, seemingly as uncomfortable with making small talk as Signa.
“It’s no bother, I’m quite used to handling myself.” Besides, the only one who could have been there for her was Aunt Magda, whom Signa would prefer to never see again. Every spirit that walked the earth was tethered to the world by some sort of intense emotion, like anger or sorrow. She’d seen weeping women staring out windows and spirits arguing back and forth, stuck in an enraged loop. Signa had gotten used to their patterns and was skilled at avoiding them, for spirits frequented the same spots until they eventually decided to pass on from this world.