“Would you allow me to come?” Blythe pressed, ignoring Diana’s upturned nose and Charlotte’s long sigh. “Not to flirt, I promise.”
“You would hate it, Blythe,” Charlotte said. “You wouldn’t have the stomach for such a distasteful sport.”
“But Eliza does?” Charlotte was right that fox hunting was the last thing she cared to participate in; Blythe didn’t have a lick of interest in the sport. Getting to the Wakefields’ manor, however? She couldn’t have asked for a better opportunity to get a closer eye on Everett or get Eliza alone, where she’d perhaps be more willing to explain exactly what that earlier look between her and Charlotte was all about.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve participated since I was a child.” Eliza set down her croissant. “Come, if you’d like to try it. Though if you’re in it for the men, they get far too competitive to pay us any mind. I’ve no idea what Everett was thinking when he thought this would help me.”
“I’ll be there,” Blythe promised, biting back a grin. “If I’m going to be calling you my aunt soon, it’s about time we start bonding.”
While Diana spluttered on her tea and Charlotte covered her mouth midbite with a quiet choke, Eliza fixed Blythe with a fiery glare. “If you’re not careful,” she threatened, “then come tomorrow I’ll see to it that you’re the fox we’re all hunting.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
FOXGLOVE’S BALLROOM MADE UP THE ENTIRETY OF THE MANOR’S TOP story. Signa stood outside it, several feet from double oak doors she’d watched the spirit slip beneath.
A single brush of her fingertips against the doors’ delicately carved depictions of deer frolicking in a garden was all it took for her body to erupt in shivers. She couldn’t control them, shaking so fiercely that she fell against the opposite wall, hands on her throat as she did everything she could to pull air into her lungs. It was as though she’d fallen headfirst into a frozen lake, held captive beneath the ice.
Never had she felt so many spirits lingering in one place. Wherever Death had ventured off to, he wasn’t here, and every bone in Signa’s body ached to flee. What if she couldn’t defend herself? What if the spirits possessed her, and this awful chill within her never ceased?
It took a double take for her to notice that the severe-looking woman depicted on the portrait outside the ballroom doors was none other than a young Aunt Magda, and Signa could think of no worse omen.
Beneath the doors, pale light flickered. There was noise inside, too. Laughter, swishing skirts, the clattering of glasses, and words that Signa’s swimming mind couldn’t quite place. She didn’t dare let the spirits see the effect that they had on her, and she had to clench her teeth tight and focus on settling the quivering of her body. She couldn’t stop it entirely, but once she was steadier, she pressed her hand to the silver knob. Inside, the voices went silent.
It was not the ballroom’s delicate blue archways or ivory paneling that Signa noticed first, nor was it the floral mural on the vaulted ceiling. If she’d had her wits about her, she might have noticed that the crystal chandelier rivaled the one from the queen’s palace, or perhaps that her father’s careful touch was upon every square inch of the grand estate. Instead, what she noticed were the dozen or so spirits that turned in unison to stare at her, and—only when she slipped on it in her surprise—that the floor was sleek beneath her boots.
Signa’s feet flew out in front of her, and pain rocketed through her tailbone. Several of the spirits floated closer to investigate, and Signa promptly pushed herself across the marble.
“Stay where you are!” She wished she’d had the foresight to have brought a knife with her. It would be useless, of course, though having something sharp and solid in her grip would have been a great comfort.
“It’s her,” the spirit nearest to Signa whispered, though none of the others seemed to hear. The spirit was one of the loveliest that Signa had ever seen, and she recognized her as the woman from the portrait. The one, Signa assumed, who had led her here. Her voice was like honeysuckle, so sticky-sweet that for a moment Signa forgot what she was doing.
Tentatively, as though she anticipated that Signa was little more than a skittish fawn who might dart away at the snap of a twig, the spirit drew a breath closer and leaned in so that her face hovered at Signa’s level.
“Oh, I can’t believe it’s truly you!” The woman reached out as if to stroke Signa’s cheek but remembered the impossibility at the last second. “I’ve waited a long time to see your face again, Miss Signa. My, how beautiful you’ve become.” The woman bent closer, and Signa surprised herself by not flinching on pure instinct.