Foxglove (Belladonna, #2)(75)
“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?
It was no secret that Signa had wanted to remain at Thorn Grove as long as possible. She’d dreaded her arrival to Foxglove, and yet now that she was here, finally in a home of her own, she realized that all she’d really needed was a moment to herself in a place where she was in full control. A place where she could focus on having a bit of earth between her fingers. A place where she could finally just… be. No hiding. No pretenses. No being looked at as though she were a monster.
Signa crossed the garden and pressed a tentative finger to the withered juniper shrub. Perhaps it was finally time that she gave her new powers their fair shot—not because anyone else expected it of her but because she wanted to. This garden could be her playground; here, she could do whatever she wished without judgment.
She tipped her head back, savoring the brine and the wind that snarled through her hair. She’d been wrong to fear change—wrong to fear Foxglove, for it was the perfect canvas. A strange, misunderstood place she could explore to her heart’s content. Like, it seemed, had called to like. Here, she would grow roots of her own, and no one could ever force her to leave. Perhaps being alone wasn’t always such a bad thing.