Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(97)

Perhaps it was the bark, or perhaps it was the conversation, but Signa was already feeling a little better. Frustrating as it was, she was glad to know that she and Charlotte felt similarly. “I understand,” she said. And she meant it, for she’d felt similar worries upon seeing Charlotte at Thorn Grove.

“I would have thought you’d have given up foraging with your approaching debut,” Signa teased her, fingers curling around some moss. “Some would call you a witch for this wonderful remedy of yours.”

“It takes a witch to know one,” Charlotte scoffed. “You think I didn’t see you coming out of the apothecary? You’ve always enjoyed plants as much as I’ve enjoyed discovering what the woods have to offer on any given day.” She shut her basket tight and lifted her chin high. “It’s nice to have something to do that doesn’t require getting all dolled up or parading myself around, but mostly I continue because the willow bark helps my father with his arthritis.”

“That’s kind of you,” Signa said, hoping that if she softened her tone, Charlotte would realize she meant it.

In the end, Charlotte did relax a little. “What about you?” she asked. “I’m surprised you were allowed to ride alone. What are you doing out here?”

“I have an escort,” Signa told her, teeth aching from all the chewing. She delicately picked a sliver of bark from her tongue. “We ended up separated, though. Percy’s been coming out here lately, and I’ve been worried about him. Have you seen him?”

Charlotte was slow to choose her next words. “He and Blythe used to help me with foraging, and I’d tell them all about what was edible and what wasn’t. But as we grew older, it was improper for us to spend time alone with each other. I see him sometimes, like tonight, but only in passing. He seemed in a hurry. I think he was going to visit his mother.”

She said it so casually. Signa had never been aware of him visiting the garden, and Sylas had never mentioned Percy visiting the stables to request a horse until the past few days. “Does he do that often?”

“Well she was his mother,” Charlotte answered, speaking more freely in the woods. More like the old friend Signa had once known. “Of course he does. Blythe used to as well, before the garden was locked and she took ill.”

Signa spat out the rest of the bark as she mulled over those words. “Are there others who visit?” Signa wasn’t certain what she needed to know, but there was a curiosity to be quelled. She stood as Charlotte did and followed her in the direction to the garden.

“Lillian didn’t entertain guests there, no,” Charlotte admitted, scratching Mitra’s neck as they walked. “But Mr. Hawthorne did prefer to have someone escort her there. Usually, a servant, or a groom from the stables.”

Electricity shot through Signa’s spine. As much as she enjoyed Sylas’s company, curiosity ate at her, and she couldn’t shake the questions that piled on one after the other: How was it that a stable boy would have such nice boots and gloves? Why was it that the day he’d been meant to escort her to the garden, he’d chosen to ride the unruliest horse and get himself lost in the woods? Had he wanted to prevent her from getting inside?

He knew about the library, too. He knew how to get there despite being a stable boy. He’d also been the one to show her the secret passages.

And before that, after she’d found the garden, he’d been so quick to accept her offer of money and a position should he waver in his loyalty to the Hawthornes. He claimed it was to help someone he cared for, though Signa couldn’t for the life of her figure out who that might be.

She liked Sylas—more than she liked most people in fact. She was comfortable around him. She’d chosen him to be her confidant in her quest to solve the mystery of Lillian’s death.

But what if she’d chosen wrong?

“I should be getting back,” she decided aloud, the urgency in her voice enough to make Charlotte jump.

“Of course,” Charlotte said, looking a little uneasy upon sensing Signa’s panic. “Do you know the… Signa, do you see that?”

A plume of gray smoke filled the sky ahead of them.

Dread filled her. In the middle of winter, it could be no accident. “Hurry to Thorn Grove and get Elijah,” she directed Charlotte, then hurried Mitra toward the rock and used it to lever herself up and into the saddle. “Tell him to hurry.”

“Signa—”

“Percy could be in there!” Sylas, too, though Signa did not dare admit her suspicions aloud. Did not dare admit the possibility. “Please, just go!” She didn’t linger to see if Charlotte followed her command. Clutching Mitra tight, Signa rode straight toward the smoke. Toward the garden, and toward the answers that waited.





FORTY-TWO





MITRA BOLTED THROUGH THE SNOW AND THE GNARLED BRANCHES that scraped at them. There were eyes in the woods, concealed in the bramble and the shadows. Eyes that were forever watching, waiting to see what might happen. Lillian was nearby, luring Signa closer. Wind ripped through her hair, burrowing in her ears and rattling her brain. The dead could be bitter. They could be depressed, or restless. But the spirit that pulled Signa toward the garden was spiraling more wildly than any she’d ever felt.

A few yards ahead, shredded ivy littered the ground, torn from the iron gates—now thrown open—that barricaded the garden. Sylas’s horse waited outside, ears flat, hooves scraping at the ground. Signa was off Mitra and hurrying through the garden gates before she could second-guess herself.