Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(98)

The fire was still contained to the garden, though it was growing by the second. Flames devoured whatever vegetation they could find in the melting snow. The flames stretched, embers seeking purchase in a bush that flared to life beside Signa.

Sylas shoved her to the side before the fire could singe her clothing. She hadn’t even noticed him approach. “It’s too much!” he yelled, his words nearly drowned out by the roar of the flames and the croaking frogs that fled past their feet. “Get out of here!”

She ignored him. “Where is Percy?”

“The fire had already started by the time I arrived. I haven’t seen him—”

Signa gripped him by the coat, effectively silencing him. “Just who are you, Sylas Thorly? Was it you who started the fire in the library?” God, she was annoyed when her voice cracked, though no more so than when his shoulders slumped.

“Of course not—” He grasped hold of her wrist, trying to pull her from the garden, but Signa yanked free.

“Don’t touch me!” Anger festered inside her. Hot, senseless anger that didn’t care about the smoke or the garden, or anything other than whether he had betrayed her. Whether he was destroying the Hawthornes.

If Sylas was the culprit, his face revealed nothing. “I’m not involved, Signa, I swear it! Now stop being so damn stubborn and get out of here!”

Gundry panted at her side, pawing and circling, eager to flee. But even if Signa wanted to run, her body wouldn’t allow it. She was trying to decipher whether she believed his concern was genuine when coolness seized hold of her—Lillian’s spirit grounding her to the garden.

“She wants me here,” she told Sylas, breathless. “I can’t leave.”

Sylas took hold of her hands, but this time she didn’t try to pull away. There was no obvious doubt on his face, or any sign that he thought her mad. With everything in her, she wanted to trust him. “Take the horses and get out of here,” she whispered.

The flames were mirrored in his smoky eyes. “Signa Farrow, you are a fool if you believe I would leave and allow anything to happen to you.”

Heat licked her skin, the smoke doubling by the second. It wasn’t enough to choke them yet, or to stop them, but enough to turn Lillian’s shadow ghostly where she floated above her burning grave. Her black eyes wandered to where another figure stood, obscured by the smoke.

“Who’s there?” the figure called, and Signa nearly sagged with relief at the sound of that voice.

“Percy!” Signa ran to her cousin, whose eyes were wild and haunted. His hair was mussed and filled with leaves, and he wore his nightshirt still. “We saw the smoke, and…” Something glinted in his palms. “Is that—Percy, is that a tinderbox?”

He ran his thumb along its side and tucked the tiny silver tinderbox into the pocket of his trousers. “I had to take care of the problem.”

The wind picked up, lashing embers at Signa’s sleeve. From her grave, Lillian snarled.

“But this is your mother’s garden,” Signa reminded him. He was too far into his own head to pay her any mind, but she couldn’t stop herself from saying it. Not with Lillian watching. “It’s where she’s—” Realization struck. “What was it that you needed to take care of, Percy?” Signa swallowed her rising dread and reached for Sylas, for she already knew the answer.

Something in Percy’s expression cracked. “She won’t leave me alone.” His voice betrayed no sadness or fear. No remorse. “You see her, too, don’t you? Is that why you’re here? Did she send you to Thorn Grove to haunt me?”

“Signa—” Though soft, Sylas’s voice cut like a blade. “We shouldn’t be here.”

He shouldn’t be. But Signa Farrow was not made of the same flesh and bone. She was made of the night, so she did not cower. “You were poisoned, cousin.” She held her hands up, as though placating a toddler. “It’s normal to hallucinate. Your mother loved you very much, but she’s gone—”

“She’s not my mother!” The yell burst from him like a tempest. “She was never my mother because my mother is a governess. She’s a whore who fled her home because she was an embarrassment to her family. My father was a fool for ever allowing her to set foot in our home—”

“She only ever wanted what was best for you,” Signa argued, remembering the pages upon pages she’d found in Marjorie’s journal, all of them about Percy. She remembered the way the woman had watched him, always with a smile upon her lips. Always with fondness.

“If she wanted what was best for me, she should have stayed out of my life!” Free from the eye of society, he spoke with abandon. “If anyone found out, I’d be ruined. It’s not like it’s hard to tell we’re related. Just look at us—anyone who saw us side by side could surely piece it together sooner or later.”

Signa would have given anything for him to allow her to take him home and be done with all of this. Her heart ached worse than she knew what to do with because, for all his faults, Signa had begun to view Percy as she imagined one might view a brother—with unrivaled annoyance, certainly, but also with love. She’d wanted Elijah to come to his senses and let him inherit the business. She’d wanted Percy to be happy, as he was when they’d danced, laughing and teasing each other with every step.