Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(85)

The room she came to next was decidedly feminine, with walls a soft shade of green and a dresser adorned with bottles of amber perfume, a hairbrush, and rouge. She knew the room belonged to Marjorie when saw lesson plans on the desk with Signa’s name on them and brief notes about her progress.

The notes were simple upon first glance, but Signa knew in her gut that there was nothing simple about Marjorie. There had to be something, and so she riffled through her desk until she came across a small leather-bound journal buried at the bottom of a drawer.

She perched on the edge of Marjorie’s bed and set the journal upon her lap. Hands trembling, she flipped to the first page.

October 22, 1852

I’m not sure I will ever belong at Thorn Grove.

How many days will I sweep the kitchen or launder the sheets before she allows me to see him?

Perhaps she’s right and I shouldn’t tell him. Perhaps he will not accept my love after all that has happened. All the same, it is cruel to force us apart. If not for Lillian, all would be as it should. All would be well.

Signa turned to the next page, dated a little over a week later.

November 1, 1852

Lillian has eyes everywhere. I feel them upon me more than ever, watching my every move, ensuring I don’t get too close to him.

But today she took Blythe into town for new dresses for the season, and I found him in the stables, admiring the horses. He’s an excellent rider—he’s excellent at everything he does, really.

Perhaps I should not have told him, but I spent twenty years believing that the truth would set us free. Yet I fear Lillian was right to demand my silence—no one has ever looked at me with such contempt.

Perhaps if I’d listened, my heart would not be breaking.



January 10, 1853

I never imagined what would become of Lillian once the truth was out, but I do not pity her.

This is what she deserves, and when she’s gone, Elijah will be free. This family will be free.



April 11, 1853

Lillian is gone, but I fear she has taken my Elijah with her.

I pray for the children. I pray for Lillian, God rest her soul, and that she will soon be nothing more than a memory to us all.

I pray that, finally, we can be a family.

Signa couldn’t flip through the journal any faster. There were pages upon pages detailing Marjorie’s affection for Elijah, and for the children—and how different life would be had she been the one to raise Percy and Blythe. Marjorie wanted Lillian out of the picture, and by the sound of it, Lillian wanted Marjorie gone just as badly. But if that was the case, why hadn’t Elijah simply sent Marjorie away?

Signa skimmed the pages for anything about belladonna, or even a single hint of poison. But if Marjorie knew anything of it, she knew better than to write about it in her journal.

The entries weren’t proof that Marjorie had harmed Lillian, but they were a clue. Perhaps the poisoner wasn’t Byron after all. Either way, Signa needed more.

She closed the journal and let the shadows wrap tight around it. If someone wanted to take it from her, they’d have to pry it from her cold, dead fingers.

From top to bottom she tore through the room, searching for anything to confirm her suspicions. She groaned, shadows yanking a drawer from Marjorie’s armoire and throwing it across the room in frustration when she still hadn’t found anything more than the journal.

She pressed two more berries upon her tongue, her rations running low since she’d last stocked her supply the night she’d visited the garden. There had to be something more concrete elsewhere in Thorn Grove, and she needed more time to find it. Room by room she hunted for answers. The longer she remained under the belladonna’s influence, the more natural it felt shifting through the walls and walking by people who didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

Eventually, Signa came to the room across from Blythe’s, where Lillian’s portrait stared at her expectantly, urging her to take that next step forward. She heeded the call.

The sitting room was even larger than her own, outfitted with mahogany furniture and walls of soft blue and cream—all covered in a thick layer of dust. It was clear no one had visited in some time. Probably, Signa thought, not since Lillian’s death.

Only the room wasn’t as empty as she’d first believed.

Signa startled at the sound of footsteps in the attached bedroom before remembering that she could not be seen. Gathering her shadows, she floated through the wall and found Marjorie inside. She sat upon the dusty bed, her breathing labored as she held a small black-and-white photograph. Signa stepped around Marjorie to peer over the woman’s shoulder.

The photo was of Percy with his mother and father. Given how young Percy looked, Signa guessed it was taken before Blythe had been born.

Signa didn’t expect the tears that welled in Marjorie’s eyes, nor did she know what to do when Marjorie ripped the photograph in half. She flung open the window nearby and sent scraps of the photo scattering into the snow as she held in her sobs.

Signa had half a mind to abandon her snooping and retrieve those scraps for Percy, knowing he’d never have a chance for another portrait like that one. But she fell still at the sight of Marjorie’s hands. Her fingers were bare, the tips stained a deep plum.

Signa looked down at her own hands.

The fingertips were the same: stained the color of belladonna.