Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(91)

“I have waited for you for millennia, Signa Farrow.” There was a silky husk to his voice now, too pleased for his own good. “Since the dawn of this earth, I have waited. You are mine, and I am yours. And together, this world is ours.”





THIRTY-NINE





BOTH SIGNA AND ELIJAH SAT AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE WELL BEFORE daylight, poring over theories and motives, neither of them willing to speak the truth aloud—that Marjorie couldn’t have been acting alone. That her reaction was too surprised. That her love for the Hawthorne children was too genuine.

But the stain of belladonna upon her fingertips and the entries in her journal didn’t lie. She had wanted Lillian gone, but that wasn’t enough. Hands could be washed and poisoned cups cleaned, so they needed proof. They needed answers. And thus, they had gathered to try and find them.

Signa was relieved that Elijah spoke frankly with her, and he listened to her suspicions with the utmost attentiveness. When she suggested Byron as Marjorie’s accomplice, he didn’t balk or tell her she was mad. He leaned his chin upon steepled fingers and said, “I’m sure we’ll have the chance to speak with my brother soon.”

He was right, though Signa didn’t ask how he knew Byron would appear. It was hardly sunrise when he hammered the knocker loud enough to rouse the dead.

“Let him in, Warwick,” Elijah called out to the butler. His throat was scratchy, voice on its last dregs. It felt like so long ago that he’d been a burst of starlight upon the ballroom floor, grinning and sober and happy. Before her now, Elijah had his slippered feet drawn up into a chair as he sipped on black tea he’d poured far too much milk into. The bags beneath his eyes were heavier than Signa had ever seen, and he did nothing to tame the disheveled hair that was strewn across his forehead and into his eyes. His facial hair had regrown, now a shadow across his face.

Breakfast had been brought out moments prior, and Signa took spoonfuls of porridge as she listened to the thunk-thunk-thunk of Byron’s cane against the hardwood. Byron didn’t wait for permission, or for Warwick to escort him into the dining room before he threw the door open, face flushed such a shade of crimson that he appeared close to bursting. He took one look at Signa and growled, “Get out of here, girl.”

Elijah held up a hand in her defense. “Signa will stay.” He motioned to a chair opposite her. “Sit, Byron.”

“If you think I’m going to—”

“I said sit.”

Signa looked to the corner of the room, in the darkest shadows, half expecting that Elijah had somehow summoned Death with that tone.

Byron smacked his tailcoat to the side and sat. His fists were clenched tight as he set his hands upon the white lace tablecloth. “What have you done, Elijah? A broker arrived at Grey’s this morning, rambling nonsense about the sale of the business.”

Elijah took a spoonful of porridge, scrunched up his nose, then added milk and a cube of sugar. “Of course there’s a broker. Did you expect I’d let my family starve?”

God help Byron and the man’s poor heart. He turned from red to purple, so angry that he’d forgotten to breathe. Signa thought he would pass out, or yell at the very least, but he drew in a breath and settled his mounting anger. “If you want to sell the business,” he began with an admirable level of calm, “let me purchase it. We can work out a payment plan, or a percentage of the monies for you to collect. You’ll never have to touch another ledger.”

Elijah requested Warwick to alert the kitchen staff they were in need of more tea. The silence was a weight around them. Signa felt as though her crawling skin might jump from her bones at any moment. Sitting silent in the midst of the two men’s bickering was a unique form of torture.

Byron seemed to think so as well. “Elijah.” The name struck like a hammer on a nail. “Is that offer agreeable to you? You know I would never let your family suffer.”

Elijah’s jaw screwed tight. “I never intended for my family to suffer, either. Which is why I’ll ask you just this once, Byron—were you working with Marjorie to harm my family?”

Signa didn’t dare blink for fear that she’d miss his reaction. Yet she didn’t know how to read Byron’s retracted neck and creasing brows as anything other than surprise.

“Have you been drinking again,” Byron demanded, “or have you gone mad? What are you raving about?”

Elijah raised a porcelain teacup to his lips and watched his brother through the billowing steam with an astounding level of calm. “Do you know what happened to my son?”

Byron slammed his teacup onto its saucer, splattering a few drops of tea onto the ivory tablecloth. “Elijah, no more games. What’s happened to Percy?”

Signa wanted Byron to be guilty. She wanted answers, or even to use her new abilities to follow him home and confirm for herself what his involvement was. But Byron’s concern appeared genuine, and while part of her was relieved, she couldn’t help but grit her teeth as her frustration mounted over the lack of information.

Elijah’s face hardened. “He fell ill moments after you left the party last night. We found Marjorie with poison, and I have reason to suspect the two of you may have been working together.”

“Poison?” As though his intent was to stand, Byron pushed from the table with his walking stick in hand. At the last moment he seemed to think better of it and settled back in his chair. In a smooth, cold voice, he said, “We have had our differences, Elijah, but why in God’s name would I hurt anyone in your family?”