At least a minute had passed since Signa had spoken, yet even as Amity stirred beside her, restless, Signa said nothing until she took another long sweep of the room, watching the spirits reenact the same movements and conversations once, twice, and then a third time before she finally asked, “Are they all like this?”
Amity sighed as she took a seat beside Signa. The floor grew colder with her nearness, and Signa tucked herself close, fisting her hands in her skirt to spare her fingers from frostbite. “I’ve tried everything I could think of to get them out of their loops, but none of them will budge. They’ve been like this for twenty years.”
Signa didn’t miss the longing in the woman’s voice as Amity turned to watch Briar. If there was one thing in this world that she recognized, it was loneliness. Twenty years Amity had been trapped here, surrounded by familiar faces who showed not even a spark of acknowledgment that she existed.
Signa wanted to let herself be drawn to Amity but quickly reeled in such instincts. She forced herself to remember Thaddeus, and how he’d been the most charming man until his beloved books had been damaged by a fire. He’d lost control enough to possess her, and she would never shake the chill of that memory. With a spirit, sometimes it took only a pin dropping to set them off.
“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.”