Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(64)
Still, Foxglove couldn’t all be doom and gloom. Signa’s parents had lived here once, after all, and were rumored to have hosted dozens of extravagant soirees during their years. Perhaps the gloom was rare, then. Or, better yet, perhaps there was beauty in the midst of the gloom, and she needed only to squint to find it. She tried—very hard, in fact—until her temples pulsed and her eyes grew sore.
“It has potential.” Signa tried to sound hopeful, more for herself than for Elaine, who looked very much like a woman who regretted every decision she’d made in the past twenty-four hours. If the tiny white parasol she clutched was any indication, Elaine had been thoroughly ready to leave the dreariness of Thorn Grove behind in favor of seaside living. Seeing her dread, Signa almost felt guilty for asking the woman to accompany her.
Almost.
“All it needs is a little elbow grease,” Signa pressed on, determined not to let the woman turn back while she had the chance.
Elaine took one look at the slate-gray stones and exhaled. “I’m afraid I haven’t got that many elbows, miss.”
Only Gundry seemed to favor the estate. His paws were caked with mud and bits of grass, and his tail wagged as he sniffed at the heels of the carriage driver who clambered from his post, pressing one hand over his cap to keep the wind from snatching it as he carried the last of the luggage into the manor and then toddled back out. Signa had never seen someone in such haste, more eager to leave than even the horses, which were stomping and huffing their disapproval as the driver rushed back to his seat. He gave Signa no opportunity to invite him inside until the storm passed but instead snapped the reins and hurried off down the path.
A crow cawed down at them from the manor’s tallest spire, and Elaine whispered a prayer.
Signa couldn’t blame her. “I’ll put an ad in the paper,” she decided aloud, turning toward Elaine with the widest smile she could manage. “I’m certain we’ll have a full staff to assist us in no time.”
Elaine made a low noise in the back of her throat that was likely meant to be agreement but sounded more akin to agony. “Aye, miss.”
Signa decided that if Elaine stuck around, the woman could have whatever position in the house she’d like. It wasn’t as though there would be any shortage of them. Foxglove appeared every bit as large as Thorn Grove, though it was both taller and narrower, with towering gray spires she was certain the town probably found cheery and not at all unsettling. And while she hadn’t gotten close enough to see what condition they were in beneath all the thriving greenery, there were stables, too, which would require a groom and stablemen once she gathered some horses. It was going to be more work than she ever imagined.
“We should hurry inside,” Elaine said, following Signa’s gaze. “We’ll be caught in the rain if we wait any longer.”
She was right, though Signa knew it was the cold clawing its way into her bones that Elaine truly wanted to get away from. While Signa had grown accustomed to such a chill, even her mortal body had its limits, and eventually there was no choice but to freeze or cross the last few steps into her new home.
Foxglove was where she was meant to make a new life for herself. One where she would live without the Hawthornes, Death, or anyone she loved. She tried not to let such bleak thoughts plague her mind and sought instead to think of all the possibilities waiting for her as she carefully stepped over broken shards of glass and into the manor.
Signa was glad to find that, aside from the dust, it wasn’t nearly as dreary as it appeared on the outside. It was, however… unique.
The entryway itself was a long stretch of space lined with portraits that had been meticulously hung, the space between each one measured with the utmost precision. Yet they were not nearly as colorful or precise as the portraits Signa was used to. The angles were sharp and unrefined, and the artist had a tendency to exaggerate features like the whites of eyes, the reediness or fullness of a body, or a smile so wide it was unnerving.
Aside from an ashy table decorated with an odd vase holding flowers that had long since wilted, ready to crack apart at the tenderest touch, not everything felt quite so macabre. Entirely out of sync with the art, Foxglove’s walls were all bright shades that almost tricked Signa into believing it truly was the cheerful seaside retreat she’d imagined—buttery yellows, delicate blues, and wallpaper adorned with imagery of birds. From the elegant carvings around the ceilings to the plush rugs she walked across, every detail had been lovely prior to the soot and grime that now coated them.
The climate was far from dry, and yet after twenty years of abandonment there was little to show for that. The porch was sloped, and several windows had been destroyed by vines and ivy that crawled their way in through broken glass. But there was nothing that couldn’t be remedied.
Signa’s pace was little more than a snail’s crawl as she made her way into a sage-green parlor with the most exquisite tea set on the table. There were trays inlaid with gold, ruined by tacky outlines of whatever had once been ready to serve but had long since been stolen away by ants. Signa’s skin crawled as she approached, not daring to touch this moment that felt stilled by time.
“Are you all right, miss?” Elaine’s voice was shaky, and for her benefit Signa nodded.
“I am.” She had trouble with her voice as she looked from the dusty marble busts to the rich leather sofa. She tried to imagine what this room might have looked like twenty years before, when her parents had been alive. There was still a deep imprint upon one of the cushions—had her father sat there? Had her mother, Rima Farrow, preferred the couch, or the beautiful green armchair across from it? Had they taken their tea here at this table?