Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(20)
“This place is incredible.” Awe laced Blythe’s voice as she stepped forward and hooked her arm through Signa’s. “How strange that I’ve never been here before. I wasn’t aware it existed.”
Signa bit her tongue. How Fate intended to stroll into Celadon with a palace that had appeared out of thin air and call himself a prince, Signa hadn’t the faintest idea. And yet no one seemed to question it; not even Blythe, who pulled Signa along while Byron eased himself out of the next carriage and hurried to catch up. Blythe led them toward a towering marble fountain of a woman in a gown of ivy and flowers that split at her midthigh and twisted around her ankles. Water poured from the chalice she tipped precariously in her hands. Live lotus flowers and lily pads drifted at her feet.
There were other fountains, too. Smaller, but each of them as extravagant as the next and surrounded by short spiraling hedges or adorned by the most bizarre flowers that once again reminded Signa of a fairy tale—ancient and magical things that seemed out of place in the real world. All around them towered wisteria trees in full bloom, their rich petals dangling overhead like the most glorious canopy. Everyone was gaping in delight as they stretched their hands toward petals that were somehow always just out of reach. Yet as beautiful as it was, the courtyard dulled in comparison to the palace itself.
Never had Signa seen anything so massive. Where Thorn Grove was dark, Wisteria’s exterior was a spotless white, adorned with gilded carvings and more windows than Signa could count, each of them sporting marvelous stained glass. There was a long stone walkway leading up to the palace, with a pond on either side. Sculptures loomed from the water, some of them of gorgeous women or powerfully built men, while others were of beastly creatures that could come from only the wildest of imaginations. They appeared to be made from marble, some of them blanketed with moss and creeping fig, and each as excessive as the next. Signa stretched her fingers out to draw them across their damp stone, then turned toward Byron at the tapping sound of his walking stick coming up the path.
“I want you both on your best behavior,” he warned, fighting the same slack-jawed awe that everyone at Wisteria wore. “This prince could be our key to clearing Elijah’s name.”
Signa very much doubted that.
Blythe squeezed Signa’s arm, her footsteps hastening as they followed a trail of bustling crinoline toward the palace. There were whispers, too. A few of them sounded excited, but the majority were low and prickled at Signa’s skin. She turned to catch the eyes of too many strangers staring at them with dagger-sharp glances and spiteful rumors searing their tongues.
Though Signa was used to such behavior, it never stung any less, especially considering that she’d believed herself finally free of it. Blythe, too, kept her jaw tipped high and her expression flat, refusing to mark herself as prey before ravenous vultures. It was she who had warned Signa all those months ago of just how willing society was to pluck the skin from one’s bones to worsen any wound. And if there was one thing that Signa had learned about society, it was that people loved little more than watching those above them fall from grace.
“Come.” Signa steered her cousin forward. “I’d like to see the inside. I imagine it must be even more grand.”
Oh, how right she was. If the exterior of Wisteria was opulent, the interior was decadently lavish. Like the exterior, the walls inside Wisteria were bright and pristine, decorated with extravagant ivory wallpaper and gold flourishes. It would seem Fate had a taste for the color, for the mirrors and paintings were also plated in a matching gold.
“Oh, it’s magnificent!” Blythe craned her neck to gaze three stories up to the ceiling—which was painted a brilliant shade of red—and beheld the most intricate floral designs swirled throughout. Ahead were two grand staircases that met in the middle of the second story. They were covered in a thick red-and-gold rug, and the girls followed suit as guests climbed the stairs. They slowed their steps for Byron, and Signa used the time to take in every inch of the decor.
Strung along the walls were the wildest assortment of oil paintings, each one depicting strange and nonsensical things. One showcased a garden full of fairies that danced around overgrown mushrooms, while another portrayed two women dancing in a candlelit ballroom, their dresses igniting into flames behind them. Tucked into every corner were the most elaborately carved vases or sculptures. Most were tame, while others elicited blushes and concerned gasps, such as the statue of three people in the heat of passion, and another of a man brushing his hand along his lover’s cheek with more tenderness than Signa knew was possible to impart into a piece of stone.
Each painting conveyed a story with such richness that the art felt alive. She wasn’t convinced that, if she glanced away, they wouldn’t spring to life and continue their stories.
“His lordship is quite the collector,” said someone ahead, and Signa recognized the sharp voice as belonging to Diana Blackwater, a mousy and uncivilized girl who could often be found attached to the hip of Eliza Wakefield. She was perhaps one of the worst vultures Signa had met thus far, and Signa made sure to stay quiet, trying to keep from Diana’s view.
“A collector, indeed.” Byron’s scowl grew in severity with every piece of art they passed. “At the very least, they should have had these pieces temporarily moved. Avert your eyes, girls. You shouldn’t see such atrocities.”
Arms still linked, Blythe leaned toward her cousin and whispered, “It would seem he hasn’t the faintest idea what’s in half the books that end up on our nightstands.”