FOURTEEN

BY THE TIME SYLAS FOUND HER, SIGNA WAS LEANING AGAINST Mitra, gripping the reins to hold herself upright. Sylas’s hair was mussed and peppered with twigs, like he’d taken a tumble into the bushes. Beneath him, Balwin seemed delighted and not at all out of breath.

“Miss Farrow!” Sylas exhaled a relieved breath. “You shouldn’t have taken off like that!”

“It’s not my fault you couldn’t keep up,” she managed. She wiped her mouth with her forearm and sucked in gulping breaths of the cool air, letting it flood her lungs and cool her skin. She hadn’t realized before that interacting with a spirit took so much of a toll on her, but as it was, she could barely lift her hands. No longer could she feel Mitra there beside her, holding her up. No longer could she feel anything.

“Signa?” Sylas’s voice was faint. “Are you ill?”

“Quite,” she managed to say. “I believe… I believe I must have eaten something foul.” She couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t stop the press of cold deep within her bones. Couldn’t think of anything other than how they needed to hurry because Blythe’s killer was on the loose somewhere within Thorn Grove.

Signa groaned as Sylas hauled her atop Balwin. She had half a mind to protest as his arms wound around her waist to secure her in front of him on the saddle, though as it was she could hardly see straight. She tried not to flinch from his touch. Tried to accept the help and let herself remember that she couldn’t hurt anyone now that the belladonna had faded from her blood.

“If you’re going to lose your stomach,” he warned her, “make sure it’s not on my boots.”

She made no promises. It felt like someone had taken a cricket bat and bludgeoned her in the temple. Her stomach threatened to empty itself at any moment, and though Sylas had shed his cloak and settled it over her, she couldn’t stop shivering.

“What happened to you?” As kind as his actions were, Sylas’s voice had a hard edge. “Do you get ill like this often, or only when you disappear to frolic in the woods?”

“I would hardly call this a frolic,” Signa countered, curling her fingers in the offered cloak. “And no, it doesn’t happen often. I think I saw something in the forest.” She decided to slip a piece of truth into her next statement, just enough to sound a little bewildered. “It felt as though something in the woods was calling to me.”

With his chest against her back, she could feel his body become taut against hers. Her cheeks warmed, and she tried not to think about the inappropriateness of this situation or how strong his thighs felt around her, and instead on how he didn’t appear to be breathing. “Is something wrong?”

“It’s nothing you should worry yourself—”

“I can judge that for myself,” she cut him off, feeling brave with Sylas in a way she didn’t often get to be. “Whatever it is, tell me.”

There was a moment when the only sound was the crunch of leaves beneath the horses’ hooves. Signa twisted to look at him, and when his smoky eyes met hers in the dim moonlight, her mouth went dry.

Everything about this man had grated her nerves when they’d first met. Now, however, things were frustratingly the opposite. Her attention fell to the tunic that was rolled up on his arms, to his broad shoulders, down the deep neckline that revealed a glimpse of his chest.… And then she averted her eyes like the proper young lady she was and pretended he didn’t make her skin hot while simultaneously making her want to pummel him.

Sylas, fortunately, didn’t appear to notice her struggle. “There are rumors about Thorn Grove.” His whisper was as unnerving as the dark forest surrounding them. “Rumors I wanted to tell you the day I picked you up but didn’t know how. Had you anywhere else to go, I might have.” They had to duck beneath branches that clawed at them, and when one threatened to tear at the sleeve of her borrowed cloak, he paused to help her untangle it with deft fingers. The moment she was freed, she swayed forward in the saddle and cleared her throat.

“You were saying?” She could only pray that her skin was not flushed pink.

He frowned a little but continued nevertheless. “I was saying that, at night, the servants claim they can hear a woman crying. Some refuse to wander the halls after dark, for there are whispers of a ghost. A blond woman in a white dress, watching them one moment and gone the next. And Master Hawthorne… He’s the worst off. I think he hears her, too. I think that’s why he doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t do much of anything anymore.”

“Other than throw soirees,” Signa added. The most lavish and risqué ones she’d ever heard of.

“To drown out the sound of her cries, I imagine,” Sylas defended. “To keep her at bay, and to forget. I’ve known the Hawthornes for a long while, and I assure you that he was not always like this.”

They knew about Lillian’s spirit, then. They may not have been able to see her, but they knew she was there. Signa’s body sagged against his as she blew out a breath. So relieved was she that, had she the energy, she’d have thrown her arms around Balwin and kissed him between the eyes. Death had told her there were people who could see glimpses behind the veil of the living. While they likely couldn’t see Lillian as she could, they knew they were being haunted. If anyone suspected Signa of seeing Lillian’s spirit, they wouldn’t bat an eye. Luck, it seemed, had finally decided to throw her some favor.

“What about you?” She was becoming far too comfortable slumped against Sylas but could do nothing about it as exhaustion sank into her bones. “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Thorly?”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Miss Farrow. In a place like Thorn Grove, how could I not?”

The words were like fairy music; never had Signa heard anything so sweet. “Then you will understand when I say I was forced out of the estate and into the woods tonight.”

“Whatever your reason, you need to be more careful. You’ve not stopped shivering since I found you.” He adjusted the cloak he’d thrown around her for emphasis. “If it’s discovered that this happened and that I didn’t report it, I’ll lose my job. My loyalty is not to you but to my employer. So if you want me to take that risk, you’re going to have to give me a good reason.”

Signa willed her brain to spin a story so believable and so masterfully told that she’d be able to escape the situation with him none the wiser, but her temples ached and her mouth burned with the desire to just say it. To tell someone else what was going on, so that she didn’t have to do this alone. There was something about Sylas and the way he spoke—so factual and direct—that made Signa feel as though he might believe her. It was for the same reason that, around him, her petals unfurled a little. She’d been able to speak her mind to him without him running away. Not to mention that Sylas had already admitted to believing that Lillian’s spirit was haunting the Hawthorne estate.

The breath she drew was so sharp that Mitra flapped her ears. “If I tell you,” Signa whispered, “you must swear not to tell another soul.”

Sylas, it seemed, was every bit as ruled by his curiosity as Signa. A smile in his voice, he leaned into her and said, “I promise.”

“To anyone? No matter if you think me ridiculous?”

“I already think you’re ridiculous,” he mused before Signa turned and fixed him with a glare. “Fine, yes, I agree to not tell a single soul upon this earth whatever it is that you have to say. Now, are you going to continue with this suspense? Out with it.”

“I wanted to find her grave.”

He stared at her blandly. “Are you fascinated with the macabre, Miss Farrow?”

There was no simple way to word it. Signa did the only thing she could—squared her shoulders, and said, “I have a reason to believe that Lillian didn’t die of natural causes. That she was murdered, and if we don’t find out who did it, Blythe will die, too.”

For a long while, the distant hoot of an owl was her singular response. Signa curled into herself as she listened, expecting as they crossed the moors that Sylas would flee to the nearest doctor and ask for her to be taken away. To her surprise, though, the first thing he asked was, “We?”

Signa brushed her fingers across Balwin’s mane. She hadn’t meant to say it, but now that she had… It was becoming apparent this was a situation greater than anything she could handle on her own. She needed help, and Sylas knew about Thorn Grove. He knew about the Hawthornes and had access to the staff in a way she never would. He could help.

She was spared having to answer until they arrived at the stables. As he helped her off Balwin, she caught Sylas by the hand. He jolted, and for a moment Signa feared that the effects of the belladonna were still potent. That perhaps she still had access to her powers and had stolen his life. But they both wore their gloves, and he was blinking at her with dark, curious eyes.

“I need you to tell me everything you know about the Hawthornes,” she urged, realizing she’d grown louder in her excitement when Sylas leaned forward to quickly press a finger to her lips, the touch intimate enough that her mouth went dry.

“Miss Farrow, I work in the stables.” He looked behind her, ensuring no one was watching as he pulled her inside. “It’s not my place to gossip about those who pay me—”

“I’ve seen your boots, Mr. Thorly. I’ve seen the way you dress, and it’s apparent to anyone who looks at you that you want to be more than a stable boy.” Something in his eyes flashed. Something Signa latched on to and pushed against. “Imagine what could happen if you save Blythe. If you put an end to Lillian’s hauntings and give Elijah peace of mind. If you ever step into the stables after that, it will be to mount your own horse. You’ll never have to work again.”

Sylas undid the horses’ bridles and saddles, and his pinched forehead told her just how much the gears in his head were turning. “Should you be found out and let go for any reason,” she added to sweeten the deal, “I will employ you myself the moment I claim my inheritance. Use your position to help me, Mr. Thorly. Be my confidant, be my ears, and your future will be so much more than working in the stables.”

“You’ve a clever tongue,” he replied. With the horses shut back in their stables and their gear put away, he propped himself atop a bale of hay and asked, “You’d pay me out of your own pocket to help you solve a murder for a family you’ve only just met?”

“The Hawthornes have been kind to me,” she said in spite of his scrutiny, staring at the little scar upon his brow. “Besides, it’s not as though I’m wanting for money.”

His laugh was little more than a bewildered puff of breath. “I suppose you have a point. Very well, then. You have yourself a deal, Miss Farrow.”

She tried not to let her surprise register. She’d always known money held power. It was everything in this world. Yet this was her first time experiencing for herself just how much sway it carried. She allowed herself the tiniest sliver of a moment to relax her shoulders and bask in her relief over the fact that she would no longer be alone in this. She knew too little about the Hawthornes and had too little time to deal with this on her own. She needed someone like Sylas, and there was plenty for him to gain as well. Money had always been what people wanted from her, and if that’s what it took to get his help, then so be it.

“Tell me everything you know,” she urged him again. “Is there anyone who disliked Lillian?”

“There was an entire society who disliked Lillian.” He smoothed a hand through his hair, inky as the night. “You’ve seen the family’s wealth yourself. And I’d wager you’ve seen what jealousy and greed can do to people. People didn’t have to know her to dislike her.”

With great bitterness she thought of what had become of her parents, then of all the ways her guardians had treated her over the years. Though her friend Charlotte had made the time she’d spent with her uncle full of fond memories, the older she’d gotten, the more she thought about how often he’d left her alone. About how he would use the money meant to care for her on imported clothing and lavish gifts for his lovers. She’d spent most nights locked in her room, trying to drown out the strange noises of the guests she’d never been allowed to see.

It was Signa’s grandmother alone who had truly loved her, while the others craved only her fortune. Some of them had been decent enough to keep her fed and warm, but she’d never felt like a person to them. Never felt like anything other than an invisible girl dragging a hefty sum behind her.

Seeing the answer upon her face, Sylas nodded. “Lillian was a wonderful woman, but the Hawthornes will always be a target no matter how kind they are. There are people who would kill for money, Signa. People who will spin lies into sweet words and even sweeter smiles. You’d be wise to remember that.”

She doubted that would be an issue. There’d been times in her life when strangers showed her kindness, certainly. Until they’d seen her talking to a spirit or heard the rumors and would flee. Even when she had her inheritance, she couldn’t imagine that changing unless she secured a proper husband and made a name for herself among society.

Could it?

“If what you’re saying is true,” Signa said, “then why should I trust you? You agreed to take my money quickly enough.”

His response was simple. Firm. “You shouldn’t trust anyone but yourself, Miss Farrow. But for Blythe’s sake, I’m going to help you. First things first, we’ll need to get you back into Thorn Grove without suspicion.” Sylas stood and offered his gloved hand.

Tense in the shoulders, Signa accepted. He led her to a stall where his hound, Gundry, lay curled in the hay. The hound growled as Sylas motioned him aside and bent to shuffle several hay bales out of the way. Signa couldn’t help noticing the contraction of the muscles in his back as he worked, taking his distraction as an opportunity to observe the male physique. More and more, she found her interest in it stirring.

“Press your hand flat against that panel.” There was a stone wall hidden behind where the hay had been. Signa followed his orders and pressed the stone. It clicked and shifted beneath her hand. “Now turn it,” he said.

When she did, the wall slid open to reveal a pathway bathed in darkness. No lights, no sound, just a draft and an endless maze ahead.

Sylas grabbed hold of an oil lamp on one of the stable’s workbenches. Gundry rose, stretched himself out with a yawn, and padded to his master’s side. “Has anyone shown you the tunnels into Thorn Grove?”

As Sylas held up the lamp, Signa peered into the nothingness before her. The hairs on her arms stood on end. “Never. Where do they lead?”

“These? Into the kitchen pantry,” Sylas answered. “Though I’m sure there are a dozen more paths, I know of only a few. I don’t believe they’re used anymore, but this one was intended to be an escape route for the servants in the event of a kitchen fire. There are others that servants used to keep out of sight of those living at the manor. The tunnels are dark, but they’ll get you inside the estate undetected. Should anyone find you emerging from the kitchen, tell them you were roaming the property and lost your way, and found yourself in need of a late-night snack since you missed dinner. Now”—he ducked beneath the entrance and stepped into the tunnel, extending a hand—“do you trust me to escort you?”

The words felt like a trap. Sylas had warned her not to trust him. Not to trust anyone. And yet she reached to him, eager to feel the brush of his hand upon her once more. “Not even a little.”

“Very good, Miss Farrow. Now let’s get going.” His fingers curled around hers, and he drew her into the tunnels.

According to Sylas, parties at Thorn Grove were no rare occurrence.

“She loved few things more than company and a reason to celebrate,” he said as they took slow, cautious steps through the tunnels. The way he spoke of Lillian made Signa imagine someone so much grander than the ghostly spirit she’d encountered. It made her think of how she envisioned her own mother—as someone made for the spotlight. The type of woman who came alive beneath the dazzle of lights and music. One whose body was made to wear a ball gown, and whose smile charmed all who beheld it.

That made it easier to believe Sylas when he said that all who met Lillian fell in love, and that Elijah was no different. “There’s gossip that he wasn’t always known for his chivalry, or for being a man who belonged to only one woman,” he whispered. “That changed when he met Lillian.”

“Could the murderer be one of his jaded ex-lovers?” Signa squinted, using the dim glow of the lamp Sylas held to see where she was going.

“Maybe.” He lifted the lamp higher, trying to better spread its light. “I’ve heard Elijah’s brother favored Lillian as well, though it was rare to find a soul who didn’t. Lillian always said Thorn Grove was too magnificent a place to keep to themselves. Guests were in and out constantly.”

Signa nodded, though in her gut she knew there was more to it. Lillian had died of poison, alone in her garden. If there was one thing Signa knew about belladonna, it was that death came swiftly if enough was consumed. Yet Lillian had been sick for months, which meant someone had been slipping the poison to her in small doses, skillful enough to make her death slow and painful. They weren’t looking for a random passerby with a dislike for the Hawthornes; they were looking for someone with the time for precision. Someone with frequent access to the estate.

“Did any of the staff hold grudges against Lillian?” she asked, rearranging the puzzle pieces in her head.

“No,” Sylas answered with confidence. “Everyone who worked at Thorn Grove during her time here loved Lillian.”

Signa wasn’t sure she believed that someone could be so well loved and admired. Surely, the woman must have had bad blood with someone. “And what about Elijah?”

Sylas bobbed his head and considered. “They enjoyed him less so. It wasn’t that they didn’t like him; Elijah was always a businessman first, and everything else second. He spent the majority of his time in his office or at the gentleman’s club.”

Signa remembered one person who clearly didn’t dislike Elijah. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Signa how Marjorie had caressed his arm, or how she’d spoken to him with a familiarity unbecoming of a member of the staff. But that didn’t prove anything. If something was going on between Marjorie and Elijah, it could be a new development.

Signa braced one hand against the tunnel wall for balance, her thoughts racing too quickly to pay attention to her steps. “Tell me more about his job.”

“Grey’s is a family business,” he answered. “I think the Hawthornes are so invested in it for the pride, more than anything. It was started by Elijah’s great-grandfather Grey Hawthorne, and has been in the family for generations, allowing them access to some of the most affluential people in and out of the country. As the eldest son, Elijah inherited it from his father. He runs it with his brother, Byron, and one day it’ll pass to Percy.”

It took a moment for Signa to recall the name; for her to remember the man who had stopped her and Marjorie on the stairs the first night at Thorn Grove. The one who’d drawn out the sharpness of Marjorie’s tongue—Byron. It was Elijah’s brother who Percy was speaking with that night. The same brother who’d favored Lillian.

“Does Byron not have any children?”

“Even if he did, Percy is Elijah’s eldest and everything will go to him,” Sylas said. “But no. He never married.”

More and more puzzle pieces shuffled around in her head, not a single pair of them fitting together. There was more to all this, something Signa wasn’t seeing. Fortunately, this was only the second night. Now that she’d accepted Lillian’s task, perhaps she’d have a chance to sleep without the spirit bothering her. To think and check in on Blythe to figure out how the poison was being administered.

“I met Byron on my first night here,” Signa mentioned. “He seemed angry, though I never figured out why.”

Sylas grabbed the back of Signa’s borrowed cloak and steered her to the side before she could trip over a small pit. He did it effortlessly, and Signa was glad that he would not be able to see her embarrassment in the darkness. She glanced sideways at his black hair strewn around him like a dark halo, noticing again how large he was. Like a walking tree trunk, really. A tree trunk with muscles. It was astounding.

“Elijah hasn’t been back to the club since Lillian’s death,” he said, the corner of his lip twitching upward when he caught Signa staring. “There’s been talk that he’s no longer fit to run it, yet its ownership belongs solely to him and he refuses to let Byron take over.”

If what Sylas said was the truth, then perhaps that’s why Byron had been at Thorn Grove, talking to Percy, the night she’d arrived. Was his relationship with Percy a way to take control of the business himself? She was about to voice the question aloud when the toe of her boot caught the edge of another dip in the ground. She should have tripped—she felt the momentum of herself falling and prepared for the impact—yet Sylas was there before her, using his free hand to brace her by the shoulders as her face smacked into his chest.

For a long moment she stood frozen in place, contemplating whether this was an appropriate condition under which she might fake her own death to prevent further mortification. Eventually, she decided it was worth the embarrassment to glance up at him, ever so slowly, only for every bone in her body to seize when she saw that his smoky gray eyes were peering right back down at her.

“Don’t you ever watch where you’re going?” His voice was low and brisk. “You could have hurt yourself.”

“I’m quite fine, thank you.” This close, she couldn’t help but stare at the faint smattering of freckles that were dusted beneath his eyes.

“Then would you mind releasing me? We’re here.”

Not having realized she had her hands fisted in his shirt, she released her hold at once. The fact that she had not simply melted into the ground from sheer embarrassment was a true testament to her inability to die. “Thank you for accompanying me, Mr. Thorly,” Signa announced as she drew back and smoothed her dress. “I’ll try to visit Blythe tomorrow and see what I’m able to find out.”

“And I’ll search the kitchen tonight and speak with the cooks.” He tilted his head down at her, his right cheek sporting a dimple that Signa hadn’t noticed before. “If I find anything, I’ll contact you.” There was a door before them, small and built into the wall. “This will take you into the pantry,” he said. “Sleep well, Miss Farrow. Rest assured, we’ll get to the bottom of what’s happening in Thorn Grove.”