Eleven Signa
ELEVEN
S IGNA
Signa enjoyed spending time in cemeteries. In fact, there was a beautiful kirkyard back in Fiore that she would often visit on her strolls. Not because she was macabre, or odd, or whatever people thought to say about her, but because they were one of the quietest places she’d ever found.
It was silly how many people believed cemeteries were haunted.
They could be unnerving, yes, when one considered the sheer number of bones and bodies buried beneath the soil, but the best thing about spirits was that they did not cling to those bodies.
Rather, they clung to the land in which they had died, and very few people ever truly died in a cemetery.
That wasn’t to say it never happened. Signa had once seen a man whose skull had been beaten into a tombstone. She’d also seen a spirit who had clearly been buried alive, though that particular situation was one she tried not to think about too often as it reminded her of Percy.
Regardless of what others believed, Signa preferred to think of cemeteries as places to celebrate memories—almost like scrapbooks in the way that so many lives were etched onto stones.
Messages for loved ones. Their favorite flowers or pastries delivered so that they’d know they were remembered.
That there were people who loved them, even in death…
There was a comfort to be found in places like this.
Signa stilled as the air around her grew cold, a familiar weight hanging suddenly in the atmosphere.
A small flurry of snow swept upward as Sylas took form beside her.
He wore a simple black suit with matching boots, revealed only as the shadows sloughed from his figure.
His hair was unbound, and his arrival warmed her soul as it always did.
“I take it you felt bad about your negligence and decided to come and help?” she asked, folding her arms as the reaper cast a cool look over the cemetery. He watched as a young man crouched nearby, tears in his eyes as his fingers traced a headstone almost reverently.
“I’ll never fathom why you enjoy coming to these places.” He sighed. “I do not favor heartache.”
Signa understood why he found it difficult to watch the mourning, though she disagreed that cemeteries were only for heartache.
“Not that you deserve to know, but I’m here to work.
There are spirits who need to pass on.” Signa plucked a small handful of flowers for good measure.
If she was going to be wandering around, it was best to look the part.
Sylas followed as she slipped ahead of him, watching her with great curiosity. “And you intend to help them from a cemetery?”
“I don’t have to,” she challenged. “We could both return to Wisteria now, if you’d agree to offer your assistance.”
“You know I cannot,” he said. “The spirits must make their own choice to pass on, and I’m afraid I can’t stay for long.”
“And why is that? Just where are you running off to, Sylas?”
“It’s the holiday season, Little Bird,” he whispered. “Things are always busy this month. Do not be angry with me. I would much prefer to be home with you, though your cousin has requested that I help her search for someone.”
“For who , exactly?”
“She’s asked that I not say. It’s better that way, in case I cannot find them.”
Signa chewed on her lip, still glaring. “And what of the spirits? Why is it that Wisteria is full of them when you helped choose this land?”
Slowly his shadows crept around her waist, luring her toward him. Signa didn’t make it easy for him, turning her body into a deadweight. “Perhaps I was lazy in my research.”
She scoffed. “Or perhaps you’re hiding something.”
He hummed under his breath. “You’re doing well with them. But why have you come here of all places?”
It was clear that Sylas had no intention of telling her anything more. She clenched her jaw. Had he taken a page out of Blythe’s book with all these games he was playing with her?
“There are dozens of spirits in Wisteria. With that many people having died all together, surely there must be some sign here of what happened.”
It was a stretch, but she’d hoped to find a familiar name among the gravestones. Jules , or perhaps Odette . She didn’t know either of their surnames, but she knew a fire had somehow been involved in their deaths.
Sylas’s shadows released her, curling on themselves. The reaper, of all people, appeared pleased.
“That’s brilliant.” His hand slipped into hers, and before she could roll her eyes, Sylas was pulling her along through the cemetery. “Let’s see what we can find, shall we?”
She much preferred having Sylas there with her, but her grumpiness couldn’t keep her from uttering a low, “I thought you had somewhere else to be.”
“I do, but I missed you.” He smiled at her, so disarmingly handsome that Signa felt herself melt. “You said you wanted my help, so I thought I could spare an hour or so.”
“Very well.” She wrapped her fingers around his, relaxing into the coolness of his touch. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Brude’s cemetery was beautiful. It was not so green as the one back in Fiore, where moss and lichen fought to overtake the tombstones and where every step was crooked and precarious.
It was instead bright and pristine, and made even more so by the snow that blanketed the flat ground.
Every stone and statue had been meticulously polished to the point that she was convinced no dirt lay beneath this snow.
Best of all, just as she’d hoped, there were no spirits to be seen.
But that didn’t mean that she was alone.
“These places are always so busy during the holidays,” Death noted, watching families bundled in their coats walking with flowers in their hands.
“There’s something about this time of year,” she said.
“It softens our hearts, and makes the absence of those we miss all the more apparent.” Signa tried her best to avoid anyone’s eyes.
It felt wrong to be wandering while there were families crying over tombstones and whispering conversations to the dead.
At the end of the day, everyone wanted the same thing—for the spirits of this world to feel loved and cared for.
For them to be able to move on to a better and happier existence.
Snow crunched softly beneath Signa’s boots as she journeyed deeper into the cemetery, taking her time reading every headstone.
“Look at this one,” Sylas said, stopping before a tall headstone.
The stone’s surface was weathered but still elegant, the inscription framed by a delicate design of ivy and roses etched into the marble.
“‘In memory of Arthur Pembroke,’” he read aloud, “‘who always said, I’ll rest when I’m dead.
’ And so he does.” Sylas was grinning by the time he straightened himself.
“Perhaps these places aren’t so bad after all. ”
“They certainly have a sense of humor,” she said, walking past him and toward a mausoleum near the back corner.
It had a statue of an angel holding a trumpet guarding either side of it.
It wasn’t those alone that gave Signa pause, but the flames carved into the immaculate white stone around them.
Hope flooding her chest, Signa entered the building.
Inside were more depictions of flames among snowflakes, and several candles left unlit.
The dim light made the plaques on the wall so dark that Signa struggled to read them, searching for a familiar name.
Gaspard. Henri. Isabelle. Jeanne. Laurent … She read plaque after plaque until a single familiar name showed up.
ODETTE VAN DER MEER
1682–1705
In memory of a radiant star, whose light was tragically extinguished on Christmas Eve.
May you dance forevermore.
“This is it,” Signa said, stooping to get a better look. “It has to be.”
Pride surged through her as she plucked the flowers from her makeshift bouquet, setting one beneath each plaque. Sylas circled near her, reading over her shoulder.
“Brilliant work,” he told her, “though I don’t understand what you intend to do next. It doesn’t exactly say much in here, does it?”
“No,” she agreed, turning to the bench near the entrance. “But it’s as you said—cemeteries are busy this time of year. Soon enough, someone is bound to show up.”
Sylas’s eyes narrowed pointedly. “Don’t tell me you plan to wait here. It’s freezing out.”
“There are walls to block the wind,” she argued. The bench was cool as she sat and patted the spot beside her. “Come and have a seat.”
“I’m afraid I must be getting back to my search…” His voice trailed off, clearly uncomfortable, though Signa didn’t mind. If there was a chance that being here could help her find a way to free the spirits, then she had to try.
Sylas bent to press a kiss to the top of her head, shadows pooling toward his feet and eating their way up his body. Soon, all but his face was cloaked. “I’ll return as soon as I can. Do not stay long, Little Bird.”
He was gone a second later, and Signa watched as the last tendril of shadows vanished into the earth. She pulled her coat tighter, her gaze lingering on Odette’s name.
She couldn’t make him a promise not to stay long. If there were answers to be found among the dead, Signa would wait as long as it took to unearth them.
The cold seeped through the stone walls as Signa sat waiting in the mausoleum. Snow fell steadily outside, blanketing the cemetery in silence. She’d been there for around six hours so far, watching the steady trickle of visitors through the open door.
Families came and went, laying flowers on graves and bowing their heads in quiet reverence. Some lingered, spending hours among the dead. Others hurried, the cold driving them home. But none ventured inside the mausoleum.