Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(77)
“Careful, it’s fragile!” she growled. “As much as I’d like to be there for the masquerade ball, I’m afraid that’s beyond my limits. Next year, I assure you, my crinoline will be the largest by far, and my gown the boldest. But for now, this is the only way I can send a little piece of myself with you.” She motioned to the box, her smile growing. “Open it.”
Unable to recall the last time she had received a gift, Signa peeled the ribbon off with care, as if fraying it would somehow destroy the gift within. Inside the box was a mask that Signa gingerly lifted from a cocoon of tissue paper.
“Go ahead,” Blythe urged. “Try it on.”
She did. Gilded branches curved like vines around the right side of Signa’s face and her honey-colored eye. Delicate, sculpted petals of lilac and deep green ivy wove around those branches, spilling over her head and past her blue eye. It was a gorgeous, mythical thing that Signa set back down at once, afraid she’d break it.
“It’s for the masquerade.” Blythe’s words were a little too quick, and she kept searching Signa’s face for a reaction. “I had it designed for you, as a Christmas gift. Do you like it?”
Signa held it upon her lap, staring down at one of the most beautiful pieces of art she’d ever seen. Somehow, it was hers. Someone had thought of her as they had this made, and that was by far the kindest compliment she’d ever received.
“I adore it,” she whispered, returning the mask to the box with gentle hands. “Though I’m not sure how to wear such a thing. It deserves to be framed.”
“Nonsense.” Blythe tsked. “If you think it a work of art, then wear it and become the art yourself. I know how much you’re looking forward to the ball, and if I cannot be there to steal all the attention, you must do so for me.”
Signa laughed. “I suppose I’ve no other choice.” There was a warmth in her heart that she’d not felt in some time. “This is the most extraordinary thing anyone has ever given to me. Thank you.”
Blythe waved her hand in gentle dismissal, her nose scrunching up a little. “It’s you who deserves all the thanks, for Thorn Grove has been altered since your arrival. I’m out of my bed. Father is smiling once more. It’s not perfect, but it’s more progress than I ever thought we’d see, and it’s you we have to thank. You are valued, Signa. I want you to hear that from me before some vulture of a man starts filling your head with sweet words. I care for you not because you’re polite or skilled at social graces, but for all the oddities that make you who you are. And someone else will, too, I assure you.” She took the mask and held it to Signa’s face, looking it over with a smile before she set it back into the box. “I know how society teaches us to be soft and dull and compliant, but you will not be any of those things, do you understand? Do not change the parts of yourself that you like to make others comfortable. Do not try to mold yourself to fit the standards someone else has set for us. Those are the rules for wearing this mask.”
Signa clutched the box tighter, trying to commit the words to memory, for they were everything she was feeling. Everything she was fearing. “It’s exhausting,” Signa said as she looked down to her lap, “to pretend you are something—someone—you’re not.”
Blythe took her by the hand. “Then do not spend your life exhausted.”
Signa felt as though she were standing on a precipice, teetering with one foot in a world she felt called to but was afraid to know, and the other in a world that she’d spent her life wanting, only to discover that perhaps it was not meant for her. She didn’t have the answers—didn’t know what she wanted. But she hoped to figure it out soon, and so she nodded, even though she wasn’t certain that she meant it.
Blythe’s eyes narrowed, but before she could ensure Signa’s nod meant that promise, there was a knock on the door.
“Miss Hawthorne?” It was Elaine, carrying a tray. Signa met her at the threshold to Blythe’s suite and without asking permission, lifted the porcelain teacup to her lips. She drew a sip, ignoring Elaine’s surprised protest.
“Miss Farrow—”
Signa didn’t wait to hear the rest of that sentence. She set the decidedly poison-free cup down on the tray and said to Blythe, “Enjoy your tea.”
“Remember what I said, cousin!” Blythe’s voice was a faint trill as Signa headed out the door and down the hall, slipping the mask from the box to stare at it as she went.
Soon. She would figure out what she wanted soon. But first, there was a ball to prepare for.
THIRTY-THREE
SIGNA SPENT THE FULL DAY WITH BLYTHE, MEMORIZING THE NAMES of every respectable gentleman and lady who would be in attendance at the Christmas ball. Signa’s head had been swimming by the end of it, but Blythe had seemed in fine spirits when Signa left her early that evening. Signa expected, however, that Blythe would be at her window all night, watching as men and women filtered into Thorn Grove in plush gowns and extravagant masks.
Now Signa stood before her mirror, dusted with powder and rouge, her hair combed and styled so that the dark tresses were pinned at the nape of her neck. The girl who looked back at her was everything she was meant to be—a vision of beauty, poised and elegant.
Her full lips were a deep crimson, and with hair as glossy as a crow’s feather and fair skin that had begun to glow over the past weeks, Signa thought she looked quite pretty. Meals at Thorn Grove had done her well; she’d never known she could have curves, nor had she seen herself with hips or a pleasing softness to her belly. Signa knew she could play her societal role well that night. What she wondered, though, was whether she could make her performance last. Even now, Signa’s body felt too heavy, wrong in its own flesh. She’d never realized how weak she was, either; when not using her powers, she felt like little more than a leaf in the wind. Like the Little Bird that Death called her, pushed and pulled, aimless and susceptible to the will of the breeze.