“Perhaps not entirely,” Amity admitted. “Though I am your godmother. Or was, I suppose.” Signa’s mind went blank, and Amity gave her no reprieve to consider this news before she rambled on, her excitement bursting with each word. “We met at finishing school. Your mother hated the place. I was the perfect student until she arrived with her grand schemes. She always had us sneaking away in the middle of the night to visit whatever ballet or circus was performing in town. Or whoever she fancied at the time.” The spirit’s eyes sparkled at the memory. And then they faded as she peered back down at Signa with a small, tired smile.
“I saw your parents with the reaper that night. They couldn’t manage to stay in this world, but I could. I needed to make sure that someone found you, and that you’d be cared for. When I heard that Foxglove would be yours someday, I decided to stay so that I might see what kind of woman my friend’s daughter became. It’s lovely to be able to speak with you.”
How strange it felt to learn of this woman only now. Signa would have given everything to have met Amity years ago, when all she wanted was to know that there was somebody in this world who thought of her, and who wanted her safe and well.
And yet she had no business getting chummy with a spirit, especially when another had just assaulted her. And so Signa avoided Amity’s eyes as she tried to process the news that this woman was, allegedly, her godmother. She looked instead behind Amity, past a shuffling Briar, to where several spirits were dancing. There were two sets of both a man and woman spinning in an endless waltz, while three women sat gossiping at a table set with a cloth that had long aged to yellow.
Two more proud-looking young men—twins, by the look of them—argued in the corner. Every so often one would glance at a table of women. Each of the spirits was dressed in the most spectacular fashion. Though their attire was two decades outdated, the gowns billowed with the finest fabrics while fat jewels glittered from the ladies’ ears and necks. No others were obviously injured like Briar, and even with their bluish glow, they were all marvelous.
At least a minute had passed since Signa had spoken, yet even as Amity stirred beside her, restless, Signa said nothing until she took another long sweep of the room, watching the spirits reenact the same movements and conversations once, twice, and then a third time before she finally asked, “Are they all like this?”
Amity sighed as she took a seat beside Signa. The floor grew colder with her nearness, and Signa tucked herself close, fisting her hands in her skirt to spare her fingers from frostbite. “I’ve tried everything I could think of to get them out of their loops, but none of them will budge. They’ve been like this for twenty years.”
Signa didn’t miss the longing in the woman’s voice as Amity turned to watch Briar. If there was one thing in this world that she recognized, it was loneliness. Twenty years Amity had been trapped here, surrounded by familiar faces who showed not even a spark of acknowledgment that she existed.
Signa wanted to let herself be drawn to Amity but quickly reeled in such instincts. She forced herself to remember Thaddeus, and how he’d been the most charming man until his beloved books had been damaged by a fire. He’d lost control enough to possess her, and she would never shake the chill of that memory. With a spirit, sometimes it took only a pin dropping to set them off.
“A spirit tried to kill me this morning.” Signa pressed back to her feet and stepped away from Amity. “Am I correct to assume that no one here poses a threat for the time being?”
“I should certainly hope not. I know there are some who blame your parents for what happened, but most are stuck in the same loop with no idea they’re even dead. Should they ever free themselves, I imagine most would want to leave this place for good.” She sighed, and while Signa knew better, it was hard not to trust a face so genuine, or eyes that lit with such excitement to finally have another soul to speak to.
“Not all of Foxglove is quite so depressing,” Amity noted after a thoughtful moment, an intriguing inflection in her tone. “There’s actually something I’d like to show you. Something I think you’ll love.” Her feet never moved as she glided to the door, batting gingerbread-colored ringlets over her shoulder as she checked that Signa was following.
Perhaps it was a mistake. A trap, set by a clever spirit. Signa knew what Death would say if he were to see her now, but so many years of hoping for family and wishing that someone had been there for her did not go away overnight. Signa’s chest still panged with that desire, and she hurried to follow Amity from the ballroom, down the stairs, and out the front doors of Foxglove.
Fog dense as cotton swept in from the sea, shrouding the cliffside in a briny haze that salted Signa’s tongue. So dark was the sky that it was impossible to see into the distance, forcing Signa to keep close to Amity. She wouldn’t normally have minded the weather, though the howls of wind and a resting sun did little to settle her thoughts. Ahead, Amity wavered with the wind, wisps of her billowing away with each gust. The farther they ventured from the ballroom, the more she flickered in and out of the fog.
“This way.” Her haunting voice was a beacon, leading the way anytime Signa lost sight of her. So damp was the soil that it tried to swallow Signa’s boots with every step. She struggled to keep pace, wondering all the while if it was too late to escape back to the manor. Her mind raced, trying to figure out all the ways she might cross behind the veil of life to access her abilities—and whether doing so would be worth the risk—should Amity try anything.
She hadn’t come up with a single reasonable idea by the time Amity stopped, hovering above ripe earth filled with yellow poppies and rosemary. Bushels of lavender snaked through fog-shrouded soil, twisting around flowers Signa didn’t know the names of. She couldn’t see how far the land stretched, only that it was massively overrun, with brightly hued windflowers struggling to find space to grow. It seemed there might be vegetables in this garden as well, and perhaps juniper shrubs, though it was difficult to tell, given that there were hardly any leaves and not a single berry growing on them.
“This place is far from what it once was.” Amity crouched, running her fingers through the poppies. “Your mother had an atrociously green thumb, but your father insisted on the garden. I think he wanted to give her something to care for before you arrived—something to settle her mind and ground her. He had the plans for it ready, though all they managed was to scatter some seeds before they passed. As you can see, many of them took root.”
Signa pried off her gloves and crouched to press a palm against the rich soil, fingers twirling around stems and petals. There were few things in life better than the feeling of earth against bare skin.
She didn’t know what it said about her that the first thought in her head was whether the conditions here were right for belladonna to thrive. She cast the idea from her mind as soon as she’d had it, saving such things for a later time when Fate was gone and Death was no longer so worried about her abilities.
“My father had plans for it?” she found herself asking instead, forcing herself to a stand before she soiled her nightgown. She’d have to get a wardrobe better suited for gardening with as much time as she anticipated spending here. There was so much potential in this place; the excitement of it thrummed against her chest.
“There are sketches of what it was to become laid out in his study,” Amity said, looking pleased by Signa’s eagerness. “Edward sketched everything, never without a plan.”
Signa’s blood ran cold at the sound of her father’s name. How long had it been since she’d last heard it? Five years? Ten? Had anyone spoken it aloud since she’d lived with her grandmother?