A Treason of Thorns

by Laura Weymouth

  ‘Anxious that I’d come back within an hour, maybe, and that he’d have to speak to me again,’ I grumble. But I leave the kitchen and walk down the dimly lit, musty corridor that leads to the dining room. I’m still trying to learn Burleigh’s new face, but it seems to me as if several more cracks have sprouted in the walls since I last came this way. Surely I would have noticed those gaping fissures, and the way they spill mortar and black-thorned brambles out over the wallpaper.

  It feels like a chance at redemption, finding Wyn in the dining room yet again, this time plastering over gaping holes in the walls rather than boarding up a broken window.

  ‘Still here, are you?’ I say from the door. ‘I hope you’ve finished being angry at me. I haven’t done anything, Wyn. I know other people have done things to you, but I haven’t. And I want to help – not just the House, you too.’

  At the sound of my voice, Wyn sets his palette down and turns, visibly collecting himself. ‘I’m not angry,’ he says. ‘Hello, Violet. I missed you. Welcome home.’

  I want to be petty. To hold on to how standoffish and harsh he’s been, but I don’t have it in me. It feels like everything was upside down, and now it’s gone right-side up again. I’m not sure which I needed more, either – the I missed you, or the welcome home.

  ‘Do you have another palette?’ I ask.

  ‘On the dust sheet,’ he says.

  I pick it up, and for quite a while we work together in silence, mending some of Burleigh’s hurts. It may not be House magic, but as we go, a bit of the tension singing through the floor beneath my feet fades.

  Oh, Burleigh, all you want is to be looked after.

  I gather my courage as we reach the last damaged section of wall, and steal a glance at Wyn. He’s got his serious face on, a slight frown pulling his brows together as he smooths plaster across a seam.

  ‘Why did you come back?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Wyn says without looking at me.

  ‘Will you stay long?’

  His frown deepens. ‘I don’t know that, either.’

  ‘I still plan to look for the deed,’ I warn him. ‘To finish what my father started. Now more than ever – Burleigh couldn’t keep itself together at the thought of a new Caretaker. So if you can’t live with that . . .’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ Wyn takes a step back and eyes his work critically. ‘I remembered something while I was on my way out to Taunton – I never could change your mind, when you were set on something. So I’ve changed mine, instead. You say you came back to help me, but I’ve come back to help you too. Or at least to keep you from killing yourself with House magic.’

  This time, I’m the one who frowns. ‘It’s that simple?’

  One corner of Wyn’s mouth tugs up, and he looks almost wistful. ‘Yes. That simple. Look, Violet, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I was hard on you, but you’ve been away. I’ve been here all along and I watched everything that’s happened. So I know that if you’re not terribly quick and clever, either Burleigh or the king will be the death of you. I don’t want to see another Sterling die.’

  ‘I’m not going to die,’ I tell him with far more confidence than I feel. ‘I’m just going to . . . get ahold of Burleigh’s deed, free my House, and live for ever.’

  Wyn laughs, the sound short and dry, and possibly a little bitter. ‘You were right,’ he says. ‘You haven’t changed.’

  But I have. I realize that now. Out on the fens, I was so sure I could fix things if I just got home. But now I’m actually here, doubt runs through me, as insidious as leftover mortar.

  When Wyn and I have finished with the plastering, I make a flimsy excuse and slip away. I flit through the empty, echoing halls, where an occasional ghost shimmers in a corner or a doorway. In the conservatory, I push the glass-paned doors wide and go out into the garden, where the air is thick with late afternoon sunlight. As I pass by the tangles of unpruned roses, I can’t help but notice that there’s something not quite right about them. They blush grey rather than pink at their soft and velvety hearts.

  But it’s not the garden I want. I go through the roses and the wildflower meadow to the edge of the woods at the back of Burleigh’s grounds. There, hemmed in on three sides by a drystone wall and on a fourth by the forest itself, is the Sterling family cemetery.

  I let myself in through the little wooden gate. The sound of it shutting behind me is horribly final, as is the sight of bare earth mounded atop my father’s grave. There’s a stone marker with Papa’s name and the years of his birth and his death cut deep into it. The grave itself is fresh and new and raw, like a knife wound to the surface of Burleigh’s good earth.

  Sinking down in the grass alongside the grave, I take a handful of bare soil, still damp from the earlier rain. This too reminds me of how badly things have gone wrong. When my father managed Burleigh it never rained before evening. Burleigh and Papa kept the land in excellent health and the weather carefully regulated.

  My father worked ceaselessly on behalf of the House. He knew everyone at court, and rode back and forth across the length of the country in what I now know was his search for Burleigh’s deed. How can I possibly begin to retrace his steps, and to uncover the information he brought to light? I am just a girl, with no connections, no income, and no key with which to help my House. My resolution to save Burleigh and to complete the task Papa began is an empty one. What do I have, besides the strength of my own will?

  Across the wildflower meadow, there’s a shimmer of faint blue-green as the House remembers Papa and me walking hand in hand towards the back woods, fishing poles resting on our shoulders. Whenever he managed to steal an hour or two for me, that’s what we liked to do – sit on the banks of the trout stream in the forest, sometimes catching something, sometimes not. We’d talk about Caretakers, about my duty to Burleigh House, and how so long as I looked after it, Burleigh would always be there for me.

  But I left, and Papa is dead now. Burleigh is dying. I know – I know it’s not my fault, yet it still feels as if I had a hand in it.

  What if I’d stayed? What if Papa had kept me behind, instead of Wyn? Would things be any different now?

  I scrub both hands across my face in abject frustration.

  You’re meant to be a Caretaker, Vi, Papa’s voice says in my head. And a good Caretaker always puts her House first.

  Run away with me, Wyn counters. We could go anywhere, let’s just get away from here. Burleigh’s not the friend you think it is.

  Your father never told us where the deed’s hidden, Mira adds. The only ones who know that secret now are the king and Burleigh House itself.

  I watch as the remembered versions of Papa and me reach the eaves of the forest and vanish among the trees. Then it strikes me like a bolt of lightning.

  My father knew where the deed was. Burleigh likely still knows it.

  And while Burleigh can’t let me speak of the deed without destroying pieces of itself, it can show me memories of my father. Of what he said, what he discovered, where he planned to go.

  Blood and mortar, I think I know how I’m going to save my House.

  Jed comes home at sunset, tired but pleased to have been offered a place day-labouring at Longhill Farm, not far from Burleigh House. We all eat our supper at the staff table and are uncomfortably quiet – I suppose no one wants another row. I can hardly wait to excuse myself, pleading lingering exhaustion after our long days of travel. No one mentions the king’s visit to Jed, and I’m glad of that. I don’t need him deciding it’d be better to whisk me back to the fens, not now I’ve finally got a plan.

  When I leave the kitchen, Jed’s whittling morosely and Mira and Wyn are at the washbasin, cleaning up the dishes. It isn’t that I don’t want to help – I do, and I think tomorrow I’d better go out and find a way to earn my keep – but my time tonight will be best spent on Burleigh.

  Stopping in Papa’s study, I scoop his enormous, leather-bound household ledger off the desk and tuck it un
der one arm. Then I carry on up to my room and shut the door firmly behind me. As I do, a friendly, violet-hued fire springs to life on the hearth. The wardrobe door swings open. The water in the pitcher on my washstand warms of its own accord and lets off a gentle curl of steam. It seems my new sense of purpose has lifted Burleigh’s spirits too.

  Though I’m nearly vibrating with excitement at the prospect of doing something – anything – productive on Burleigh’s behalf, I smile. You’re right, House. I might as well be comfortable before I start poking around in your memories. Better for both of us, if I’m not too keyed up. So I wash with sweet-smelling soap and pull on clean nightclothes and a dressing gown. Not until I’ve finished that do I sit down cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth and let out a trembling breath.

  Spreading out Papa’s ledger in front of me, I scan the pages. He wrote everything in here – the price of crops, the dates of repairs, the requests and troubles of tenant farms, where he travelled and when. The last is what I’m looking for.

  I scan the pages. Most of his trips have a terse explanation next to them in the margins:

  14th September, 18XX: London for a fortnight. Home Council session.

  20th February, 18XX: Bristol for a week. Arranging shipment of local goods.

  But some are a mystery.

  3rd October, 18XX: Poole.

  25th April, 18XX: Minehead.

  17th August, 18XX: Exmouth.

  If I know my meticulous father, he couldn’t resist the urge to record and document his illicit search for the deed. Here it is, spelt out in black and white. Just more trips on Burleigh’s behalf – nothing truly noteworthy, unless you knew what he was up to. Then those journeys with no explanation read like a map.

  Or at least, I hope to God they do.

  I cannot ask Burleigh House about the deed outright, for fear of pushing my beleaguered House so far it loses control of its pent-up magic. But Burleigh isn’t bound to prevent talk of my father, and it certainly seems keen on remembering him. I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked the House to remember something before – to dredge up a particular moment in its long and colourful history, and play it out once more.

  I’m about to, though. I splay a hand across one of the ledger pages.

  11th May, 18XX: Tintagel, my father’s handwriting proclaims in black ink.

  ‘Burleigh?’ I ask. ‘Do you remember anything about my father going to Tintagel the year I was seven? Can you show it to me, if you do?’

  All I expect is conversations – I’ve never seen Burleigh remember something that took place off the grounds, and don’t think it actually can. So I won’t be able to watch Papa’s excursions, but perhaps he said something of use before leaving or after returning home.

  I wait. At first, nothing happens. No rippling ghosts appear from thin air. But then, everything goes suddenly and entirely dark. I wave a hand in front of my face and can’t see a thing.

  ‘Burleigh?’ I repeat. My own voice sounds strange and muffled. Panic begins to rise in my throat. I can feel the House’s attention churning restlessly around me, but there’s no loss of control yet. No mortar seeping cold into my skin.

  After a moment, the darkness begins to fade, replaced by the morning light of a grey and overcast day. An overwhelming wave of vertigo hits me as I see Papa’s study, overlaid on top of my bedroom. Everything in it ripples and shimmers, until Burleigh’s light-on-water memory seems like reality and the solid presence of my room like a mirage. I blink and squint until at last, my mind accepts this strange duality and settles into Burleigh’s recollection even as my body remains cross-legged on the hearthrug.

  The first person I see is Mama. Something in me twinges at the sight of her. She and Papa sit opposite each other on two armchairs drawn up by the study fire, but there might as well be a world between them. It’s easy to see they’re already at odds – she sits with her knees angled away, staring out of a window. And Papa is withdrawn, closed off within himself, a map of the West Country spread out before him.

  ‘I’ll be off again next week,’ he says, after a long and agonizing silence.

  Mama sighs. ‘And where are you going on the House’s behalf this time, George?’ She keeps her eyes fixed on the dim sky and lush grass of the lawns outside, rendered a ghostly blue by Burleigh’s memory.

  Papa glances down at his map. ‘Tintagel first, I think. I’ll carry on down the coast for a few days afterward, search everything between there and Port Isaac. It feels a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, though, without anything more concrete to go on yet.’

  ‘Oh,’ Mama says, and the single word is cold as ice.

  My hands involuntarily ball into fists at my sides. I hate dredging up my family’s unhappiness. If it didn’t serve a purpose, I would never raise these particular ghosts.

  ‘Why don’t you take the boy with you?’ Mama says, and for the first time I notice Wyn. He’s crouched under my father’s desk with a blank book and a stub of pencil, sketching away.

  Papa gives her a reproachful look. ‘Eloise, you know I can’t.’

  Mama turns away from the window and her eyes are as cold as her voice. ‘I don’t like having him here. You never should have brought him home with you.’

  ‘He won’t be any trouble.’ There’s almost a pleading note to Papa’s words, and I fight the urge to stop my ears. ‘Mira will look after him, if you’d rather not.’

  ‘Violet will look after him and there will be nothing I can say to stop her,’ Mama answers. ‘She adores the boy, and I know you encourage her, but to what purpose, George? It’ll end in heartbreak. Perhaps you’re raising her to be a Caretaker, but she’s not you. She doesn’t give up the things she loves so easily.’

  ‘Eloise, please.’ Papa frowns at her. ‘He can hear you.’

  ‘Do I look as if I care?’ Mama gets to her feet and sweeps from the room.

  ‘Wyn,’ Papa calls softly. ‘Come out, Wyn. I want to show you something.’

  Wyn scrambles out from his hiding place and approaches step by slow step, like a wild cat, or an anxious rabbit.

  ‘Do you see this map?’ Papa holds it up and Wyn nods. ‘This is the sea. And all along the coast there are caves. I’m going to search for treasure that’s hidden in one of them.’

  ‘What sort of treasure?’ small Wyn asks. ‘Gold? Diamonds?’

  ‘Even better,’ Papa says. ‘Someday when I find it, I’ll bring it home and show you, and I think you’ll agree it’s very nearly the most precious thing in the world.’

  Wyn’s already lost interest in treasure, though. ‘What – what does the sea look like?’ He puts out a finger and traces Cornwall’s coastline on the map. ‘Will I ever see it? Can I go with you?’

  Papa’s smile is sad. ‘It’s very big, Wyn. And I hope someday you will see it, but I can’t take you along this time.’

  A muffled thump sounds outside my bedroom door.

  ‘Burleigh, stop,’ I hiss, not wanting Jed or Mira to have to see the reality of what I’m up to. It’s bad enough they know I’m going after the deed – I might as well spare them having to think on it too often. Immediately, the House plunges me back into darkness and when my vision clears, there’s only my room around me. The ghostly overlay of Burleigh’s memory has gone.

  I sit, waiting for a knock, but it never comes. So I get to my feet and peer out, only to find Wyn in the corridor. He’s got a tattered blanket and moth-eaten pillow and is fussing about in the hall like a wolfhound bedding down for the night. For a moment, I can’t quite reconcile the small boy I remember with who he’s become. It’s as disorientating as having Burleigh take over my reality.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask Wyn, unable to keep a disgruntled note from my voice.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he says tersely. ‘I won’t bother you.’

  ‘Wyn,’ I say again. ‘Answer the question. What are you doing?’

  ‘Burleigh’s restless about something,’ he says. It’s true the House
’s attention is still bent on me as it continues to mull over the memory I asked for. ‘I don’t want it getting upset and deciding you make an easy outlet for its magic again.’

  I bite my lip, not wanting to tell him that it’s mostly my fault that the House is restless. But Wyn bringing up mortar and magic reminds me of yet another of my manifold unanswered questions.

  ‘That reminds me, I wanted to ask you about this afternoon,’ I say. Wyn gives me a sidelong look and settles down on the floor. He lies flat on his back and shuts his eyes. I crouch, because I feel ridiculous towering over him in my dressing gown. ‘What was that? You were working House magic, weren’t you? I could feel it. But I didn’t see a thing – not a bit of mortar under your skin. How is that possible?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wyn says without opening his eyes.

  ‘Have you done it before?’ I press.

  ‘Mm. Loads of times.’

  ‘Loads of times?’ I say in disbelief. ‘House magic’s terribly dangerous. You know that – you shouldn’t be doing it at all. Was this during the arrest?’

  ‘Yes. Go to bed, Vi.’

  ‘I’m talking to you.’ I gnaw at a hangnail anxiously. ‘I just – I don’t like it, Wyn. Not one bit. What if it’s doing something to you that can’t be seen or felt?’

  He opens one eye and peers up at me. ‘Look, I only did House magic today because you started working it first. In fact, I was leaving Burleigh House. So can we not talk about this any more? I’d like to go to sleep. You ought to go to sleep. And Burleigh needs to calm down.’

  Wyn says the last pointedly, at the walls and the listening air.

  Burleigh takes the high road, and doesn’t respond.

  I get to my feet and shake my head at Wyn, who turns over so that he’s facing the wall. ‘You don’t have to sleep in the hallway, you know,’ I tell him. ‘I’m fine on my own.’

  ‘Well, I don’t fit in the cupboard any more,’ he mutters. ‘And I don’t believe you.’

  Heaving a sigh, I retreat to the sanctuary of my own room and climb into bed, curling up on one side. I’m all mixed up, torn between elation over the progress Burleigh and I have made in only one night and discomfort over Wyn’s presence outside my door. No, not his presence – the reason for it. I used to look after him, and now things seem to be the other way around. I don’t like it. It makes me feel like a burden, and I’ve always hated to inconvenience anyone else.