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?
How wonderful it would have been for Signa to have a single memory of her parents existing in this space. As it was, she had only remnants of what they’d left behind.
She turned toward more portraits that hung ready for her inspection, a few of them dispersed throughout the parlor. They all appeared to be done by the same hand, though it was a portrait of two women that drew Signa’s eye. She recognized her mother immediately, with her dark hair that had been painted in fast, messy strokes, and severe eyes that were the same shape as Signa’s. Beside her stood a young woman with thick ringlets the color of gingerbread. She was softer than Rima, a ghost of a smile playing upon rosy lips that were puckered like a heart. She had her arm draped around Rima’s waist, pulling her in close for the portrait.
There was so much about her family that she still wanted to know, and yet walking these halls felt like she herself was a ghost infiltrating the memories of a stranger. It was impossible to take a single step without questioning whether her mother had decorated the room she stood in or if her father had ended his nights in here as Elijah so often did in his parlor. Letting her thoughts wander, Signa absently pressed a finger to the portrait, trailing it over the glazed paint. She stopped cold, however, when the lips of the woman standing beside Rima drooped into a frown.
Signa swallowed her gasp as she yanked her hand back, not wanting to alarm Elaine. It had only taken a second for the tip of her finger to go numb from the chill that shot through her spine like the crack of electricity.
There was a spirit watching them. And now it knew Signa could see it.
Wonderful.
“You’ll have a room to yourself in the servants’ quarters,” Signa told Elaine, tucking her numbed finger into the folds of her coat and offering her most practiced smile. “Feel free to pick out whichever you’d like and get yourself settled.”
Elaine had never moved so swiftly as when she bent to grab hold of her luggage. She nodded and hurried to find said quarters, casting furtive glances over her shoulder as if she expected someone to try to snatch her from behind.