Signa’s hands were suddenly gripping her shoulders tight.
“Keep an eye on Eliza,” she said at once. “Promise me you won’t let her out of your sight.”
“What’s going on?” Blythe ducked out of her hold, still looking at the broken glass that was hurriedly swept away. No sooner had the staff finished than another glass fell.
“There’s something I need to take care of. Just keep close to her!”
Before Blythe had the chance to form a single coherent thought, Signa hiked up her skirts and hurried across the ballroom floor.
THIRTY-EIGHT
GOD, WHAT A FOOL SHE’D BEEN. SIGNA KNEW SPIRITS WERE FICKLE beings, just as she knew what happened when they were reminded of their deaths. Perhaps this was why Fate had suggested a party; not to help her, but to damn her further. She should have anticipated what it would mean to bring so many people into Foxglove, filling it with crinoline and dance cards.
She had re-created the night of these spirits’ deaths, and now all of Foxglove was to pay the price.
Everywhere she looked, spirits were rousing from their daze. One of the twins who’d been stuck in a loop of eyeing a group of ladies now crossed the floor to offer his hand to one. She accepted it, and the two swept into a waltz alongside the living. The other twin’s neck twisted to one side, twitching as his brother slipped away from their loop. Signa’s palms went clammy as she watched. Had the man not already been dead, he seemed prone to snapping his own neck.
Behind him, a woman walked straight through Briar, who whipped toward the nearest table, sending a rush of cold air through the room that knocked over more empty champagne flutes and had guests squealing as they scurried away. One older woman went as far as to scream her surprise, and Signa’s skin crawled from the sound.
“Briar?” Amity’s eyes glowed red as she raced toward the spirit, only for Briar to look through her.
“Amity,” Signa whispered as the spirit’s face darkened, having to pause every few steps to smile at guests who murmured their alarm. “Amity, get control of yourself.”
It was no use. Amity was circling Briar, trying to pry the restless spirit from her disillusions. Briar’s body spasmed in response, while tears as black as tar rolled down Amity’s cheeks.
Signa remembered the way Lillian had lost control back in the garden; remembered the way that frogs had marred the trees, their blood spilling down onto the soil. Once a spirit lost control, there was no going back. And the more living bodies that filled Foxglove’s ballroom, the greater that threat became.
Signa had to weave around the second twin as he strayed from his table, following a silver serving tray of petit fours. He blinked when his hand went straight through the tray, then tried again with more focus until he was able to seize a cake for himself. His edges dimmed with the effort, and when he tried to devour the sweet—only for it to fall through him and land on the floor—the spirit’s eyes flashed red. Behind him, Amity screamed at Death, backing away as he held out his hand in offering. She cared only for Briar, who was tugging her hair out by the ends in a fit of distress.
Something needed to be done, and fast. Not only for the sake of the spirits—whose pain Signa felt as though it were her own, eating her alive—but for Elijah, too. She needed to help the spirits before they sent her guests sprinting from the party and the Wakefields alongside them. Already they huddled in corners, hungry for sightings of the paranormal. Signa was certain that was why they’d come after all. Not to meet her, but to investigate the notorious Foxglove manor and see whether its rumors were true.
For once she didn’t care. If it gave her a way to gather the Hawthornes and Wakefields into her home and force everyone to reckon with the false blame laid on Elijah, then the residents of this town could believe whatever they wanted. And yet the moment that Signa started toward Amity, a woman blocked her path.
“It seems that I didn’t imagine you, then.” Dressed in her finery, coiled hair twisted into pins, it took Signa a moment to place her as the woman she’d met on the pier—Henry’s mother. She looked like an entirely different person, her skin refreshed and eyes no longer so angry or bloodshot.
“When I received the invitation, I was hoping it was you who was the new owner of Foxglove,” the woman continued. “Is it true what they say about this place?”
“That it’s haunted?” Signa asked through a wince, only half paying attention as Amity begged Briar to snap out of her haze. Across the room, Death’s offered hand was once again refused, this time by a spirit whose body crackled like an approaching storm.
Foxglove was haunted indeed, and as plates and glasses fell from the tables and the chill in the air grew so intense that Signa’s breath plumed, it seemed more people were taking notice.
“Well, yes.” The woman dropped her voice. “You can see them, can’t you? Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. After what you did for Henry, I owe you the world, Miss Farrow. That’s why you’re here at Foxglove, isn’t it? To help the rest of them?”
The question was an innocent one, spoken with the casualness of friends. And yet Signa’s response caught in her throat. Both the fervent whispers of her guests as well as the laughter of the spirits drowned away as her own world tunneled into focus. She looked once more to Amity, who was beginning to fret at her hair just as Briar was, tearing at strands she’d wound tight around her fists.
For twenty years these spirits had been unable to move on with their lives. It made her think of Henry and the smile he’d worn when he’d taken Death’s hand. She thought of Lillian, too, and how her poisoned body had restored itself before she left the living world behind.
Death may have preferred to never take a soul until they were ready, but how could he know whether someone was ready if spirits could not pull themselves from a loop? Signa could not reap souls, nor did she know whether she’d ever have the capability of leading them to the afterlife as Death could. But she could ensure that none of these spirits had to spend one more day trapped in Foxglove.
“That’s why I’m here,” Signa confirmed, and the words tasted like the most decadent chocolate, warm and rich as they slipped past her lips. Her vision swayed a little, chest tight with a spreading warmth. “Yes. Of course it’s why I’m here.”
There wasn’t a bone in Signa’s body that could wait one moment longer. “It was lovely to see you, though if you’ll excuse me…” She hurried away in search not of Death or the spirits, but for a man with sunlight upon his skin. Fate was a beacon on the ballroom floor, dazzling beneath the light that warmed his complexion as he spun from the arms of a beautiful woman to a man who laughed as Fate drew him into a waltz, a flute of champagne balanced between two nimble fingers.
Signa’s body knew what needed to be done before her mind could catch up. She knew it in her heart of hearts, with such ferocity that she could not rest until she crossed the floor to steal Fate from the man he danced with. His golden eyes slid to her, and he extended a hand.
“Hello, Miss Farrow. Would you care to dance?”
She plucked the glass from between his fingers, setting it onto the nearest table before she slipped her palm into one of his. Signa didn’t pull away as his other hand settled on the small of her back, nor did she care even remotely for the curious stares that lingered upon them, alarmed by the closeness in which Fate reeled her in. His chest was hot as a raging fire against hers.
“You look as radiant as the sun in that dress,” Fate told her.