Papa noticed, though.
I watch as the remembered version of him glances out through the summerhouse’s glass panes and shakes his head. ‘We shouldn’t be speaking about any of this on the grounds – it’s hard on Burleigh to hear us. But I’m afraid of being overheard in the village.’
Papa’s companion likely doesn’t even notice the House’s distress. To him, it seems like nothing more than the vagaries of weather. He doesn’t know how good-natured Burleigh generally is.
‘Couldn’t you overcome your scruples and let us go ahead without Burleigh’s deed?’ the gentleman suggests. ‘This place is devoted to Sterlings. I can’t imagine it ever doing you any harm, even if the king commanded it. And we could use the rest of the deeds as leverage to force His Majesty to hand Burleigh’s over.’
The gusts of rain turn to a flurry of hail. An anxious, stomach-churning feeling grips me, and I know it’s not my own. But I can’t tell if it’s a part of the House’s memory, or a part of my present reality, or both.
Papa’s face darkens.
‘Out of the question,’ he snaps. ‘I won’t hear you suggest it again – not to anyone, but especially not to me. I’m not willing to hazard that, but I don’t like any of this. There are too many loose ends. And not being able to find the location of Burleigh’s deed, out of all of them? It feels like bad luck. I’ve bribed and questioned far too many people by now – I’d hoped to have this done with months ago. There are roadblocks at every turn, though.’
My surroundings fall entirely still, both in the past and the present, as if the House is listening. The rain and hail stop. The light is low, and not a single bird sings. Little Vi looks up from her reading and puts her head to one side with a frown.
Papa’s friend leans in, towards my father. ‘Do you think someone’s working against you, George?’
‘I don’t know.’ Papa rubs a hand across his face. ‘It certainly seems like it at times. Bertie, if anything were to happen to me, you’d look after Vi, wouldn’t you? Give her a home at Weston Manor?’
‘Of course,’ Bertie promises. ‘Don’t fret about it for a moment.’
‘Papa.’ My child-self’s voice is high and wavering with worry. ‘The House—’
The sky of that remembered morning has gone a sickly green. Inside the summerhouse, there is a slithering, hissing sound as thick vines snake up the walls.
‘Violet!’ my father shouts, and lunges forward to shield me as glass shatters and beams snap. But he’s too far off, and Wyn is faster. The boy flies through the open summerhouse door and bowls me over, the two of us landing in a tangled heap.
This I recall – the sudden worry that tore my attention away from my book, the horrible sound of breaking glass, and the shock of being knocked down. I cover my head instinctively, though the falling shards have no power to harm me. Their touch is feather-light, barely remembered.
When the clamour fades and the summerhouse lies in ruins, both in truth and in memory, I can make out my father at the centre of the chaos, bent over Wyn and Little Vi. And I see what I didn’t at the time – the fragments of mortar-coated glass that have shredded the back of Wyn’s shirt, the blood trickling down his neck and arms. I don’t think he was hurt badly, but my heart sinks at the stricken look on my father’s face.
‘George, did the House—’ Papa’s friend begins. But Papa ignores him.
‘Are you all right, Wyn?’ he asks. The boy nods without speaking.
‘Go on in and find Mira,’ Papa urges. ‘She’ll look after you.’
Without a word to me, Papa straightens, and there’s anger in every line of his posture.
‘We pushed the House too hard,’ he says to his companion. ‘The binding prevents it from hearing much about the deeds without trying to stop whoever’s speaking of them. Burleigh, I’m so sorry.’
Sun shines on the trio of ghosts once more, and distant birdsong begins again. Daisies sprout and unfurl in front of Little Vi, who sits unharmed at the centre of a ring of broken glass. Papa and the strange gentleman both watch as the child I was plucks the flowers with a sad smile.
‘Of course I’m all right,’ Little Vi says to Burleigh, because no one else has asked.
The memory fades and I’m forced to jump back from the old wreckage of the summerhouse with a yelp, as enormous, thorn-studded brambles twist themselves around its sun-bleached remains with frightening speed. Before long, there’s not an inch of the summer-house left visible.
The low, nagging discomfort I’ve felt from the House fades, leaving only the constant strain of Burleigh trying to hold back its own magic. Out of the centre of the brambles, a small wild rose sprouts. I reach for it carefully, mindful of the thorns, and pluck the blossom, inhaling its summer-sweet fragrance.
‘Deeds and keys, kings and Houses,’ I murmur to myself. ‘What is it you’re saying, Burleigh?’
I wish I could understand this place as instinctively as I once did. When it was as easy as breathing, knowing what Burleigh wanted – sensing how, even without a key, I could best offer help and comfort.
‘You’ll figure it out. That’s what the Sterlings do, don’t they?’ Wyn’s standing at the edge of the back woods, not the ghostly child version of him, but his real, all but unfamiliar self. The Wyn I’m not sure how to handle. I flush and stare at the ground. There’s still tension between us in the wake of our argument last night, and I’m at a loss as to how to make things right before he leaves. I can’t turn back time and undo what’s gone before. All I can do is move forward.
And so I take a step in Wyn’s direction. He shifts and glances up at me from beneath that untidy hair, one hand on the strap of his rucksack.
‘Wyn, I’m sorry,’ I tell him quietly. ‘I’m sorry about everything. The House showed me what happened to Papa, when I first arrived. You never should have had to live through that, or any of the arrest. Whatever Papa’s reasons, it was wrong of him to keep you here. I don’t – I don’t blame you for wanting to leave now that you can. I think you should go, and be free.’
Wyn gives me a sharp look, and his jaw tenses. ‘The House showed that to you? Your father dying?’
‘Yes. I think it wanted to make sure there were no secrets between us.’
‘I asked it not to make you watch,’ Wyn says, anger in his voice. ‘I’d have spared you seeing your father die. It seems Burleigh House is less merciful.’
‘I’m glad it showed me,’ I answer defensively. I’ve always been quick to defend Burleigh. No matter what it’s been forced to do, I don’t think that will ever change. My House is mother and father and home to me now – everything I have left. ‘I’d rather know the worst.’
Taking a second step forward, I wrap my arms around myself, as if they can protect me from the rejection I’m beginning to realize is inevitable.
‘Can’t we part on good terms, Wyn?’ I beg. ‘Even if we aren’t the way we once were? I know that life’s been unfair, and that you’ve had things worse than I did. But I can’t help wishing you weren’t leaving angry at me.’
He shakes his head wearily. ‘Violet, I’m not angry at you, I just wish you’d done as I asked and not come back at all. The House is failing, and if it founders entirely before the king sets a torch to it, ruin will follow in its wake. I liked knowing you were clear of that. I’d rather you still were.’
The ground rumbles beneath us, the House clearly unhappy at the thought of me leaving it to its fate.
‘I want you to own it to yourself,’ Wyn says. ‘That Burleigh might be past saving.’
I press my arms tighter against myself, trying to contain the unhappiness I feel. ‘You sound like Mira, and I can’t agree with either of you. I can’t let Burleigh go without doing everything possible to keep it safe, and well, and whole. I have to try for this place, Wyn, no matter the risks.’
This time, he’s the one who holds a hand out to me. ‘Goodbye then, Violet.’
And it’s me this time who doesn’t reach back. Somet
hing – disappointment? resignation? – flits across Wyn’s face. He turns and walks off into the woods, where, in a moment, the trees hide him completely.
7
It’s a testament to the fact that we’re still settling in that Jed and Mira and I only sit down to breakfast at mid-morning the day after we arrive. I don’t think we’ve ever eaten so late before. It feels strange, and uncomfortable. Jed drains his cup of black tea and gets up, pressing a kiss to the crown of Mira’s head, and then mine.
‘I’m off,’ he says. ‘Don’t know when I’ll be back, so don’t wait for supper.’
‘Where are you going?’ I ask, a little forlornly.
‘To look for work,’ he says. ‘If I’m lucky, I’ll find a day’s labour on one of the farms.’
‘While you’re at it, ask if anyone wants washing done,’ Mira tells him. ‘I’ll want something to keep me busy.’
And then it’s just Mira and me, and Burleigh. ‘Where’s Wyn this morning?’ Mira asks.
‘He left,’ I say. ‘For good. I don’t want to talk about it.’
Mira reaches across the table and gives my hand a quick squeeze. ‘All right. I’m sorry, love.’
I linger at the table after she gets up. I’m unaccountably anxious at the thought of wandering off into the House on my own. I don’t know why I should feel so nervous – perhaps it’s the time apart, or how poorly things went with Wyn. But I’m suddenly terrified that in spite of my insistence that I’m meant to be a Caretaker, I may turn out to be less than Burleigh needs.
Mira clatters about, opening and shutting cupboards, taking stock of what we’ve got in the House and what we’ll have to buy or borrow. After a while, she turns to me with a sigh.
‘Violet, love, you’ve got to find something to do with yourself. Begin as you mean to go on, eh?’
I stand and let out a ragged breath. ‘You’re right. Have we got a broom and a dustpan I can use?’
‘Corner cupboard. Good girl.’
I take them out and walk through the guest wing to the long-abandoned ballroom. The crystal chandelier’s fallen and smashed, no one bothering to clear up the bits of glass. I begin sweeping, and the shards make sharp, musical sounds as they’re pushed against one another. It seems like such a small thing to be doing – such an insignificant task compared to the immensity of Burleigh’s discomfort, which is bleeding up through my feet and pressing in on me from all sides.
Halfway through the job, I give up and slip out of my soft-soled shoes. The moment my bare feet hit Burleigh’s floors, that sense of old pain and prodigious effort intensifies. I reach out and press both hands flat against the hardwood planks in front of me.
No, not good enough.
Shifting, I lie down on my side, one ear pressed to the floor, which is chill and smooth beneath the skin of my jaw, the side of my mouth. If I could, I would sink down into the very heart of the House and lend it my strength. But brick and mortar, skin and bone, have always been at odds.
‘Tell me what ails you,’ I whisper to Burleigh, desperate to help. ‘Show me where it hurts.’
A ponderous groan heaves up from the floor beneath me.
‘That’s right,’ I coax. ‘Unburden yourself, my love. I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.’
The House is tentative. It opens up slowly at first. A few threads of pain snake through my skin and into my blood.
‘There you are,’ I tell Burleigh. ‘Show it all to me. Don’t be afraid.’
The threads grow into ribbons that become ropes that become iron. Intractable bands of the House’s pain wrap around the soft, necessary things inside me. Half-penny nails of it stud my bones, their small, sharp points driving deeper and deeper, filling me with fractures.
I lie on the floor and gasp, tears starting in my eyes. But I will not cry out or beg the House to stop. I must know the worst and the worst is this – even darling Burleigh, ancient as the hills, greater than I can fathom, powerful beyond measure and wise in ways past human comprehension, cannot survive long in the face of so much pain.
A low, anguished sound escapes me as I’m struck by a sense of rot, of things going bad and decaying at my very core. I can no more escape this awful awareness of the House’s dying than all those numerous limpid creatures could escape the razor edge of my fishing spear. It grows so great I cannot bear it – I’m just a girl, after all. A little, fragile thing made of breakable parts.
And then the cold bite of mortar begins.
It nips at my fingers to start, then gnaws at my knuckles, freezes my wrists. I watch, dully, as the veins lining my hands stand out and go grey.
You have to stop this, the fierce fen-survivor in me says. Stop it now.
It’s all you have to give, the part of me that was born to be a Caretaker argues. All you have. Doesn’t your House come first?
And in a way, it’s reassuring. Great Houses are extremely particular about who they’ll work House magic with. If Burleigh is willing to use me as an outlet for its mortar, it must see me as a true Caretaker, whether I have a key or not.
But none of that makes this any less dangerous.
Before I can decide what to do, the cold fades. Burleigh’s pain vanishes as the House wrenches back, pulling its power and attention away from me with a supreme effort. There’s a horrible sound of splintering wood as the floor splits and a rift opens up along the centre of the ballroom. For a moment the chandelier teeters on the edge and then tips over, what’s left of it smashing at the bottom of the newly opened chasm.
I sit up, somewhat unsteadily, and take a breath. What am I doing here? Wyn was right – I’ve no idea how to be a Caretaker. For all my father drilled it into me that someday I’d look after Burleigh House, I’m only making things worse. But oh, Burleigh, I want to help.
Burying my head in my hands, I think of Papa. Of the man he was, and of the space he left behind. Of how small I feel, when I imagine trying to follow after him as a guardian of this powerful, incomprehensible place. Of how high the stakes have risen, and how little I can do to help without the Caretaker’s key.
‘What am I going to do, Papa?’ I say to the air, and the earth, and the walls.
‘He’s not going to answer, you know,’ a sardonic voice says from behind me. Scrambling to my feet, I turn, and my stomach drops clear through the ruined floor.
His Majesty the king stands in the doorway, brushing an imagined fleck of dust from the snowy lace edging his sleeves.
‘Fortunately, I’m here to sort out your little troubles, though I must say, you’re not managing the House nearly as well as I’d hoped. Shall we have a chat?’
8
‘What are you doing here? How did you get in?’ I ask the king after taking him to Papa’s study and settling into the chair behind the desk. I suppose I should be more formal, but old habits die hard. And then there’s the matter of the bitterness that still churns in my stomach every time I look at my godfather.
Burleigh’s unhappy with the king’s presence too. I can feel the House’s discontent seeping up through the soles of my still-bare feet.
‘I’m the deedholder,’ His Majesty says mildly. He takes out a pristine handkerchief and wipes at a spot of dust on the desk. ‘The Houses can’t actually deny me without damaging themselves, you know. Though I do try to take their feelings into account whenever possible.’
‘Why aren’t you in London?’
I knead my hands together under the desk. The mortar’s faded from the surface of my skin but I can still feel its chill bite. It will never leave me, now I’ve let it in. Any subsequent House magic worked will only add more.
His Majesty shrugs. ‘I thought I’d take the waters in Bath. Spend the summer there, perhaps. I wouldn’t mind being nearby, to keep an eye on you and the House as you settle in.’
‘Leave us alone and we’ll settle just fine.’
A pair of guards stand in the hallway outside the study door, and having them in the House makes my skin crawl. The floor is
fairly vibrating with Burleigh’s discomfort, and a small pewter figurine rattles across the desk and nearly falls. His Majesty reaches out and catches it with one deft, long-fingered hand.
The king smiles, and I force a smile of my own in return. If I don’t settle myself and Burleigh in short order, we’re headed for disaster.
Calm down. Calm down, I think at my frantic House.
A thin stream of plaster dust falls from the ceiling in the far corner of the room.
‘I’ve brought you a lovely surprise,’ the king says. ‘His name’s Lord Pottsworth. I know you’d prefer to remain at Burleigh House if it pulls through all this –’ he waves vaguely at our dilapidated surroundings – ‘so I’ve come up with a plan. I think Pottsworth’ll do quite nicely for the new Caretaker, and a husband for you. Then you can stay on here with him, and be with Burleigh House.’ The king beams at me, as if I’m a child to whom he’s just handed a lolly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I stare at the king in disbelief. ‘I am not getting married. Not now. Possibly not ever.’
‘Oh, come now,’ His Majesty says. ‘Pottsworth’s entirely unobjectionable – you can overrule him about household decisions whenever you like, and as you’ll be satisfied, I suspect the House will be as well. So run along and make yourself charming. You’re getting married.’
I cross my arms, though my heart is pounding in my ears and my hands have started to tremble. It has less to do with my own fear, which I can feel swimming beneath the surface of my conscious mind like a starving shark, and more to do with the furious power churning through the House. ‘You promised you’d give me time with the House. I’ve had barely a day. I’m not going anywhere, and certainly not to my own wedding.’
His Majesty manages a regretful look. ‘I’m afraid you are. Burleigh?’
The floor shifts, tipping my chair and spilling me on to the floor. I bark my shin against the corner of the desk and sit for a moment in a miserable heap, fighting back tears and anger and nausea as beneath me the House’s feelings pulse through my skin.
A Treason of Thorns Page 6