Signa may have told Tilly that it didn’t matter what she wore, but that was a lie. In this dress, she felt powerful enough to best Fate. So much so that she smiled back at her reflection, a warm calm settling upon her.
“You look beautiful.” Amity hadn’t so much as blinked while Signa readied herself, though she’d covered her mouth the moment Signa slid the dress over her skin. “You and your mother could have been twins.”
Signa smoothed the collar into position. She was used to hearing such things from the few people who had known her mother, though she still savored the words, tucking them away for safekeeping. She’d been thinking about her parents a lot these days and couldn’t help when the question slipped out: “Amity… I know the constable never found who killed them, but you were there. Do you know what happened to them the night they died?”
Shadows darkened her face, and for the first time since meeting Amity, fear struck a chord deep within Signa’s chest. She’d gotten so comfortable that she’d become lax with her words, but as lively as Amity may have been, she was still a spirit. And if there was one thing spirits hated, it was being reminded of their own demise.
In that moment, Amity was like one of Fate’s marionettes, hunched and lifeless in the eyes. Signa could only watch, one hand on her doorknob, as a range of emotions flashed through her in quick bursts before freezing upon a deep, festering rage that lasted only seconds before Amity’s face smoothed suddenly. She frowned.
“Some things are better left unspoken, Signa.” The spirit’s voice rang as soft as snowfall, speaking as though nothing had happened. “And some mysteries are better left unsolved. We should be going, now. Your guests are due to arrive any minute.”
“Of course.” Fearing that one wrong move would break Amity, Signa quickly altered course. “Though there’s one last thing I need to do before I venture down to see them. Would you be able to show me where my parents’ room is?”
Only then did the deep furrow and sharp planes of the spirit’s face soften. “It would be my pleasure.”
Stepping into Rima and Edward Farrow’s room felt like slipping into the past. While the rest of Foxglove had been scrubbed and polished to perfection, the bedroom remained untouched, layers of dust that caked the floor and baseboards the only sign that time had passed since they’d last set foot inside.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” Amity whispered before she slipped out, leaving Signa to this moment—the final room she’d yet to explore.
She’d banned the staff until she could bring herself to see it exactly as it had been the night that the Farrows had left this earth. If she had all the time in the world, she might never step inside. But Signa refused to allow anyone else the chance to enter this room before she did, and now that Foxglove was filling with people, she didn’t dare take that risk.
She took her first step past the threshold, the weight of a thousand questions heavy upon her chest as she forced herself forward. Her parents’ bed was made, each corner tucked and smooth. There were still ashes in the fireplace and bottles of perfume on a vanity. Signa walked to them and lifted one of the elegant bottles to her nose. The smell was so foul that it had Signa tearing up at the first scent of soured amber and notes of something probably meant to be floral that she could no longer decipher. She wondered what it had smelled like twenty years ago when it had been new. She would have given anything to know what her mother had smelled like, and to spritz herself with that same scent to sit in the ghost of an imagined memory.
It was an effort to peel herself away and move to the wardrobe next, riffling through silk fabrics and taffeta gowns embellished with great flare. Signa let her fingertips slide across them, wishing she had the time to try them on. They were the colors she loved—plummy purples, navy as rich as freshly poured ink, and even a brilliant sage green—all without a hint of frill. She lifted the green satin gown, brushing away the corpse of a moth. Several more lay motionless at the bottom of the wardrobe. They had chewed holes in several of the gowns, though it seemed most were still salvageable. She shut the wardrobe, then shifted her attention to an ornate ivory jewelry box sitting upon a chest of drawers. The contents had Signa gasping—hefty gemstones fastened into rings, and diamond necklaces so dazzling that Signa was left with no choice but to fasten one upon her neck. There was a smaller one, too. A thin golden chain inlaid with an amethyst.
A necklace for a child, Signa realized. Her necklace. It was a wonder they hadn’t been looted. Signa supposed she must have had the spirits to thank for that.