A little House magic, a little mortar in your veins, is unpleasant but won’t do too much harm. It’ll be carried off into your blood and diluted, but never really leave you. Add a little more and perhaps it’ll shorten your life – shave five or ten years off when you’re weak with old age and start coughing up grey matter. It’s the mortar that comes back to haunt you, settling in your lungs.
Add more magic still and you may die younger, taken with fits or with madness or with heart failure, as the leftovers of the mortar you’ve taken in find their way to your heart or your brain. Absorb enough at once and it will kill you outright, suffusing your veins, flooding your body with poison.
But whether you take in a great deal or a little, whether you allow yourself time between doses or not, mortar stays with you. Every bit you add only brings your death nearer. That’s why the Caretaker’s keys were made – no one’s ever explained to me how their magic works, but they allow their bearer to channel mortar without being harmed. So long as you hold a Caretaker’s key, House magic passes through you without a drop of mortar staying behind. You can do wondrous things with a Caretaker’s key – mend your House, mend the land, work the weather, encourage the crops.
That’s why I’m here. It’s not just to hear the truth of my father’s death – I’m all Burleigh has left now and I need that key. There’s no one but me to speak for my House, and no one else who ought to be Caretaker now Papa’s gone.
But I won’t let the king see how badly I need this.
‘What about Wyn?’ I ask, instead of mentioning the key, though I’m terrified of the answer I may hear. ‘What’s happened to my father’s ward?’
The king lifts an indifferent shoulder. ‘They said there was no sign of the boy. What that means, only Burleigh House knows. Look, now all this is over, can’t we let bygones be bygones, Vi? Chalk it up to a misunderstanding and start again?’
‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ I say in a voice made sharp by the grief I hide.
I’m meant to be dancing, but here I am, treading on my partner’s toes. One of the courtiers, a golden-skinned girl with a mass of loose dark curls, coughs into her handkerchief. I favour her with a thin smile, all fen predator on the outside when inside I’m still flighty as a marsh hen.
‘Did you enjoy the soup course?’ I ask her. ‘I killed the pike myself – stabbed it through the heart this morning and delivered it to the kitchen before the sun was up.’
The girl dabs at her mouth and sets her kerchief aside. ‘Well, that explains the aftertaste of rancour. You’re quite a feral thing, aren’t you?’
His Majesty smiles fondly at the two of us, as if we’re a pair of children sitting down to tea with our dolls. ‘Violet, I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of making my daughter and heir’s acquaintance before. This is Esperanza, Princess of Wales.’
Behave, Violet, I chide myself. Behave.
‘You were absolutely right about her, Father,’ Esperanza says, smiling affectionately at the king. ‘She’s prickly as a hedgehog. What fun the three of us could have.’
Now I know they’re connected, I can see the similarities between the two of them, though the king is far paler than his daughter. They both have a habit of tilting their head to one side when contemplating a problem – in this case, me. Their dark eyes both spark with a sharp and intent curiosity. And they both seem determined to run rings around one Violet Helena Sterling.
The king beckons to a footman to bring him a pudding. ‘Do you hear from your mother often?’ he asks me, and I’m sure to an outsider his display of interest seems genuine. ‘I must say, I was surprised to hear you’d taken up residence in this bog when I turned you out of Burleigh House. I thought you’d have gone to her. Where was it she ended up after that shocking divorce? Austria? Germany?’
‘Switzerland.’ I can’t disguise the venom in my answer. ‘She lives in a chateau now, and has two little boys. She writes once a year, at Christmas. I’d rather die than go to her.’
The king smiles, a beatific expression that looks entirely incongruous on his clever face. ‘How you do hold a grudge. Fortunately, Switzerland should never be necessary, as you’ve been blessed with a doting godfather who intends to start taking an interest in you again.’
I swallow back yet another biting retort, reminding myself that I’m not here for me, I’m here for Burleigh. The king picks up his spoon as a footman sets a pudding in front of him. ‘Would you like to come to court, Violet? Be Esperanza’s companion, perhaps?’
The two of them share a scheming smile.
‘No, thank you.’ Though I’m trying to be civil, the words still sound tart. ‘I’d like to go back to Burleigh House.’
‘No one’s going back to the House,’ His Majesty says around a mouthful of pudding. ‘It’s completely unmanageable now – refused three new Caretakers. Fact is, the place was in disrepair when your father took it over, and without him, it appears to be dying. I’ve come home from Belgium expressly to put it down.’
The air suddenly feels hot and close, and there’s a ringing in my ears. ‘What do you mean, dying?’
For once, the king answers in absolute earnest, and there’s pity in his usually well-governed voice. ‘Burleigh’s failing, after spending so long without a proper Caretaker. It will have to be burnt to the ground, like the Sixth House. You know as well as I do how dangerous the Great Houses can be if they fail without a proper channel for their magic, Violet. Yorkshire is a wasteland now because of the mistakes I made with Ripley Castle. I won’t risk that in the West Country. Better to destroy Burleigh and its pent-up mortar, before it does terrible damage.’
Dex appears with an enormous tray of ices, which one of the footmen hurries to take. Once relieved of his burden, Dex lingers in the doorway, tilting his head at me as if asking a question. I shake my head. No, I don’t need rescuing. But my House surely does.
A good Caretaker puts her House first – before her own life, and far, far before her pride.
I slip from my chair and kneel before His Majesty, not even bothering to hide the angry, despairing tears that fall from my eyes at the thought of Papa’s fate, of Wyn’s face disappearing from view as the House arrest began, of Burleigh House in flames.
Every courtier’s eyes fix on us. Even the servants are watching.
‘In seven years, I haven’t asked you for anything,’ I say to the king. ‘I was content to live a small life and never trouble you, not as your god-daughter, not as a girl whose prospects you destroyed and whose heart you broke. So long as I knew my House was managing, nothing else seemed to matter. But I am begging you now. Let me go back to Burleigh. Give me the summer with it, and if it is not in good health again by the autumn, then burn it down. But at least let me have a chance first. I was born for this, and you know it.’
The king gives me a narrow look. ‘What would you do for that chance?’
I swallow, and remember Burleigh House growing a garden of flowers in my bedroom one winter when I lay ill with a fever, wishing for spring to come. ‘Anything. I’d do anything you ask if you’ll give me the key and let me serve as Caretaker.’
Jed would be horrified if he could hear me. We crossed the country and hid away on the fens because he and Mira hoped to keep me from the king’s clutches. And here I am, bargaining my independence away.
His Majesty smiles languidly and my stomach drops.
I know that look. I’m eight years old again, sitting across from the king as he prepares to win yet another hand of Écarté. He always did prefer games of strategy, and all I ever managed to beat him at was Slaps.
‘I will never give a Sterling the Caretaker’s key or my trust again,’ the king says. ‘I’m no fool, to make the same mistake twice. But I will let you go home, little Violet. That is all, though.’
I rock back on my heels. ‘How will I help without the key? I can’t work House magic without it. What do you expect me to do, talk Burleigh out of its ailments?’
�
�That’s none of my concern.’ His Majesty shrugs. ‘You’re a resourceful girl, and goodness knows Burleigh’s always taken an uncommon interest in you. Figure something out. And if you manage to restore the House to good health, I expect you to support the Caretaker I choose. More than that, I expect you to convince Burleigh to support my Caretaker.’
When I hesitate, the king leans forward, ready to consolidate his victory. ‘Either you agree to my terms, or I will do what must be done and torch the place before it makes a ruin of the West Country.’
I don’t like his terms, not one bit, but it will have to be enough for now, this chance to go home.
‘I’ll need time alone with the House, to settle it,’ I tell him, grasping for any scrap of advantage. ‘Veto power over your choice of Caretaker too – it’ll do no one any good if Burleigh’s saddled with some incompetent fool.’
The king laces his hands together behind his head, satisfaction written across his face. ‘Such a Sterling. I’m so glad you came to see me, little Violet. You may be just what Burleigh needs after all.’
‘As you say,’ I answer softly, and Esperanza’s eyes narrow.
Because what Uncle Edgar doesn’t notice as he turns his attention back to his pudding is that when I smile at him, it looks like murder.
3
When the king placed my father under House arrest and I was ordered out of the only home I’d ever known, the one hope I had was Jed and Mira. I’d have been lost without them. They’d served my family as steward and housekeeper since before I was born, managing things through good times and bad, through crises large and small. And in the moment after my father’s sentencing, in spite of the trouble that had befallen me, they took my part, Mira hurrying into town to sell a few valuables and Jed doing the same with the best of the livestock, so we’d have something to start out on as we began our new life together.
Today is no different. When I wake the morning after my visit to the king, groggy and muddle-headed following a night of fitful sleep, the cottage is bare and clean. Two trunks and a jumble of satchels stand beside the doorway, holding all we own between the three of us. Mira’s few pictures have been taken down and tucked away. The broad-brimmed hat I’ve never worn is off its peg. The pile of wood shavings Jed always leaves under his chair has been swept up. Even Jed and Mira’s mezuzah is gone from the doorpost.
The last seven years are reduced to memory already. And I haven’t said a word about my plans to go home.
‘He’s outside,’ Mira volunteers before I even have to ask.
I step into the grey dawn air and find Jed sitting on the upturned dory, staring out across the marsh.
‘Dex told me what I need to know,’ he says as I settle on to the boat at his side. ‘This isn’t what I’d have chosen for you, Vi. Mira and I would have looked after you as long as you needed – kept you safe and away from the king. You’re our family now, you know?’
‘I know,’ I say, looking out too, at the trackless fens I’ve grown so familiar with.
‘You’re old enough to make up your own mind,’ Jed tells me. ‘If Burleigh House is what you want, and you’re willing to deal with the king to get it, then back to Somerset we’ll go, and whatever happens, you’ll never hear a word of reproach from me.’
I shake my head. ‘You don’t have to come. It may go badly, and I hate to see you uproot yourselves again on my behalf.’
Gently, Jed bumps my shoulder with his own. ‘Don’t talk nonsense. You’re ours, Vi. We go where you go.’
His Majesty’s left a carriage waiting for us in Thiswick. Its doors, emblazoned with the royal crest, have drawn quite a crowd. I squint dubiously at the emblem – a lion rampant in front of the five remaining Great Houses, on a sanguine field and with the family’s motto beneath: Per Facta Eos Cognoscetis. You Shall Know Them by Their Deeds.
‘Well, that’s a mercy,’ Mira sighs at the sight of the carriage, setting her baggage down and putting a hand to the small of her back. ‘At least we can make the journey in comfort.’
I dislike the reminder that it’s the king who has the last word about what happens to Burleigh. Eager as I am to go home, I hate the idea of climbing willingly into a gilded cage with His Majesty’s heraldry sealing my fate.
‘What about the public coach?’ I suggest. ‘I know it’s not as comfortable, but—’
Mira plants her feet. ‘If we’re going back to that House, you’d best get used to being beholden to the king, Violet Sterling. He owns it, and before long he’ll own you too.’
But Jed stumps forward towards the carriage as she speaks. ‘Drive on,’ he orders the coachman gruffly. ‘We’re taking the public coach.’
Mira lets out another pointed sigh as the carriage pulls away. We have lunch at the inn, and climb into the overcrowded coach when it arrives, our fares paid for by the bit of money Jed and I put aside after our last stint of thatch-cutting.
‘Where are you headed?’ a whey-faced curate seated across from me in the coach asks, to make conversation as the slow miles roll by.
‘Burleigh House,’ I tell him, though I want to be quiet. I want to sit with the fact of my father’s death, to let the grief wound up inside me unravel across the length of England, and sink away into the earth.
‘A coach going north would have suited you better to get to Burghley,’ he says with a prim frown. ‘You’re a bit out of your way.’
‘Not Burghley in Cambridgeshire,’ I answer, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. ‘Burleigh in Somerset. Every noble with pretensions of grandeur wants a Great House, and they named that . . . edifice . . . in Peterborough after mine, when it was built. My Burleigh’s much smaller, or so I’ve been told. But it’s an actual Great House, with everything that entails.’
‘You’re never Violet Sterling?’ The curate goggles, a most unattractive expression on his already insipid face.
‘In the flesh,’ I admit.
All at once, the curate’s manner grows far more solicitous. ‘Do you know, I support the cause your father died for. Unbind the Great Houses, I say. Snuff?’ he asks, holding out a little box. The lid is emblazoned with keys – they’ve been the fashion for ever, as long as there have been Caretakers to hold them.
This time, I do roll my eyes, and wave dismissively at the curate and his snuffbox. ‘Don’t trouble yourself trying to make friends. My House isn’t keen on strangers at the best of times, and nor am I. And if it’s my hand you have sudden designs on now you know I’ve a Great House to go home to, you should also know that Burleigh’s in dire straits. So I’m far too busy for nonsense, and ill-tempered besides.’
The curate withdraws his snuffbox, growing very absorbed in the passing scenery, and Mira shakes her head at me.
‘Manners,’ she mouths, and I pretend not to understand.
It’s near two weeks we spend on the road, stopping at inns by night to stay in low-ceilinged rooms filled with cots and the unfamiliar sounds of sleeping strangers. We lose time for Jed and Mira to keep Shabbat, and I know they’re anxious about prying eyes, because we pass the day very quietly. It’s strange not to have candles and singing, or anything more to eat than a hurried bite in the inn’s public room. Even on the fens, when winter grew long and food scarce, Mira found ways to make our Shabbat meals special. And at Burleigh House, Jed and Mira’s faith was never a secret, but a part of the fabric of our lives.
We have a late start on Sunday, losing another morning for me to attend service at an old Church of England. By the last afternoon of our protracted journey, Mira and I are short-tempered and Jed’s fallen completely silent.
But then Mira grips my hand tight in hers and points out the window. ‘Look, Vi. It’s the Taunton church. We’ll be home soon.’
We carry on, and everything grows familiar, as if I remember it from a dream. Then at last we round a bend and the Blackdown Hills lie before us. A fierce joy twists inside me at the sight of the patchwork fields and trees, all running up to the sky or down to valleys that hide l
ittle rivers and towns. The village of Burleigh Halt lies in just such a valley, and beyond it, up against the woods, Burleigh House.
It’s true. I’m nearly home. And I didn’t realize until now how at odds with myself I’ve been, miles away from this place. I don’t know what I’ll find at the House, but there is a rightness in this I can’t deny.
Mira nudges my foot with her own as the coach finally stops in front of the Red Shilling, the Halt’s inn and tavern. ‘Stop that, Vi,’ she clucks at me, and I snatch a hand from my mouth, chastened, with the nail half bitten.
Jed shoulders our small trunks, and Mira and I take the satchels. Fortunately we haven’t much and the walk to the House isn’t long. We trudge down a country lane together, out of the small village and into the glory of a Somerset springtime. Daffodils are everywhere, the trees have begun putting out leaves, the hedgerows are full of birdsong, and lambs and calves gambol across pastureland. The abundance of pretty, domestic life is startling after the wildness of the fens – it’s as if I’ve wandered into a painting, done all in summer-hued oils.
As I look more closely, though, I begin to see that something has gone wrong with the countryside. There’s blight on the new apple leaves. The bloated corpse of a sheep lies in a field beside the lane. A man trudges past us with a hangdog look about him, pushing a handcart that I suspect is holding everything he owns.
Things were never this way in my father’s time. I could begin to fill the empty space he left and make things right in the countryside if I had Burleigh’s key. I could heal what ails the land bit by bit, day by day, as the House’s magic wells up and renews itself again. They’re like springs, the Great Houses, their power constantly flowing. Once, that magic ran unchecked across the West Country. Now it’s been bound and harnessed, and can only be used productively when a Caretaker channels and directs it. Without a Caretaker, it builds and builds, festering and growing more destructive the longer it’s pent up.
A Treason of Thorns Page 3