Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(8)
In all her years, Signa had known only two spirits to pass on. Most—like the raging Aunt Magda, who was beating on the door of the carriage and shouting, “Don’t you dare leave, you witch! Don’t you dare just leave me here!”—could spend years roaming the earth, feeding off their most pressing emotions.
But leave they did, down streets of cobblestone where the scent of cinnamon and apple lay thick in the autumn breeze. Signa sighed her contentedness the moment they were too far for Magda to follow, listening to the occasional swish of Sylas turning the pages of his newspaper.
“You seem relieved to be leaving,” Sylas noted after a moment, eyes on his paper.
She grunted without thinking, for how true the words were. “Anywhere is better than this place,” she said as she tipped her head against a window, settling in.
She didn’t notice that Sylas’s fingers had stilled on the pages. Did not see the dark look that crossed his face as his jaw tightened and he buried himself in his reading.
If she had, perhaps she would have thought twice about Thorn Grove and all that awaited her.
FOUR
SIGNA HADN’T EXPECTED THEY’D NEED A TRAIN TO REACH THORN GROVE. When she’d first smelled smoke in the air, she’d shut the coach’s windows, thinking they’d pass it by. But as the coach slowed, Sylas pressed a thin yellow ticket into her hand. She’d never been on a train, though she’d read in the papers of how fast they were: the new way of travel; a modern luxury. It took Sylas clearing his throat for her to catch her bearings and slip out of the carriage. The moment the heels of her boots hit the ground, Signa was swept into another world.
The station was a massive building of slate gray, adorned with the face of a clock that was so large it could only be described as imposing. It struck the hour, the sound like a gong reverberating through the station.
Inside, the weathered floors were yellowed. Flies swarmed overstuffed trash bins, and the distinctive scent of musk from too many rushing bodies hung in the air. A spirit was present, too. A man in a long black coat with worn holes in the bottom sat upon a bench and watched the passersby solemnly. Signa averted her eyes, giving him a wide berth.
Dirty as the station was, there was something grand about it. There were men in business attire who held the most luxurious walking sticks, and women in bonnets and cotton day dresses bustled about, all of them with somewhere to be. A few took to benches set up at each platform, skimming a newspaper or puffing on cigars. Others hurried through the station, clutching their belongings as their eyes skimmed up to the giant clock that lorded over them.
An older gentleman with a proud chest escorted a grinning woman who couldn’t stop staring down at the ring on her finger. Pulled in by a habit from too many days spent alone, Signa filled out their story in her head, imagining that they were newly married and off to start their honeymoon. She envisioned all the beautiful gowns that were packed away in the woman’s travel chest, made from the lightest fabrics so that she would feel the salty air upon her skin as she and her beloved traveled seaside. Desire curled within Signa, so fervent that she forced herself to turn away from the couple. What might it be like to be a woman like that? To be swept away across the country by a handsome man she couldn’t stop grinning at, silly with happiness?
Beside her, Sylas murmured something under his breath. Signa nodded and pretended to listen, lost in her daydream and a sea of more people than she’d ever seen. She barely managed to weave around them all as she and Sylas made their way through the station, led by a helpful young attendant who’d taken one look at her ticket and offered to carry her chest. It was solid and heavy, yet Sylas didn’t offer the boy his help. In fact, he kept stone-faced and silent, as if making a point of not looking at the attendant.
“You’ll have the compartment to yourself, miss.” The attendant’s voice was breathy from his struggle with the weight of the luggage. “The finest one on the train.”
Signa had never wandered through a place so busy, and where everything around her felt grand and vast. Where it felt like she’d be lost forever should she make one wrong turn. Though Sylas perpetually looked like someone who’d swallowed a sour tart, she was glad to have him there with her in the event that she got lost. “Have you traveled often?” she asked.
The response came from the attendant beside her. “Not often, miss. I’d love to, if I could manage it between work, but they keep me busy.”
Signa turned to glance at the spot where she’d last seen Sylas, only to discover his absence. Sucking in a breath, she scanned the crowd until she saw him—there, straight ahead, stepping onto the train.
A moment of panic struck, and she spun to the attendant, scooping her hands beneath the travel chest he carried. “Here, give me that,” she said. “I’ll take it the rest of the way.”
The attendant flinched but tightened his grip. “It’s really no bother, miss. This is far too heavy for a lady—”
Fearing there was little time to argue, she pried the chest from his arms. It was, indeed, extraordinarily heavy, made from pure mahogany and fastened with iron locks. It certainly wasn’t intended to be carried by a woman in heels and mourning wear, but she’d manage. The tightening of her lungs—the worry of being separated from the sole person who knew where she was headed and could help her if she got lost—was far worse than the extra weight.