‘That’s enough,’ I tell him. ‘You can stop now.’
Wyn’s mouth moves, near soundlessly, and I lean forward to try and catch what it is he’s saying over and over.
Blood in the mortar. Breath in the walls. Blood in the mortar. Breath in the walls.
It gives me an unpleasant, creeping sensation, hearing him speak the words when the rest of him seems to have gone somewhere else entirely.
‘Wyn,’ I whisper. ‘Haelwyn of Taunton, come back to me.’
He blinks. Suddenly he’s there again, within himself once more. I draw in a shaking breath and throw my arms around him, because fear has turned my heart to a wild thing.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ I tell Wyn. ‘I didn’t mean for that to happen.’
‘It’s all right,’ he says, the words warm and comforting. ‘No harm done. And better me than you, eh?’
‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘Not better.’
I let go of him and sit back, pressing both hands to my face. They’re pink-skinned and perfect, no trace of the mortar Wyn drew out of me left behind.
‘Wyn, I’m afraid,’ I tell him.
‘Of what?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know.’ There are too many things to name, and I can’t bring myself to say that I’m afraid of Burleigh House. Afraid of its magic, afraid of its power, afraid of its future without a proper Caretaker.
‘I’ll meet you on the roof,’ Wyn says practically. ‘Bring up some blankets. I’ll get us some tea.’
It’s cold outside, at the top of my world in the silent, empty hour before dawn. I wrap a woollen blanket around my shoulders and shiver, but the stars are already working their own particular magic. The fear that endlessly swims in my veins is calmer, quieter, and I can think past it.
There’s a little whine of hinges as the attic window swings open and Wyn scrambles out on to the slate tiles, an enormous earthenware mug held carefully in one hand.
‘Here.’ He hands me the tea and settles in, so that we’re side by side with our backs to the brick chimney. I steal a glance at him, and I can almost see who he was, his child-self superimposed over this sullen, half-familiar boy, like one of Burleigh’s memories.
‘Well then,’ Wyn says with the ghost of a smile. ‘What seems to be the problem, Violet Sterling?’
I’m not even sure I know. I just feel, by turns, like the only person who can possibly save Burleigh, and like I’m abjectly, woefully inadequate for the job. But instead, what comes out of my mouth is this:
‘You’re the problem,’ I answer, wrinkling my nose. ‘What are you doing with the House magic, Wyn? I don’t like it – it’s dangerous, and I don’t want you getting hurt.’
I pass him the mug of tea, and he takes a mouthful before answering. ‘Would you believe me if I said I know exactly what I’m doing?’
‘Oh, I believe you,’ I answer. ‘But knowing what you’re doing and not deliberately putting yourself in harm’s way are two entirely different things.’
‘Canny,’ Wyn says with a shake of his head. ‘Just like you’ve always been. A canny and relentless creature.’
I reclaim the mug and frown. ‘Don’t change the subject. I’m serious.’
Wyn looks out across the grounds, and the shadowy smudge of the back woods. His eyes are very far away – not vacant, as when he works House magic, but distant, seeing something I can’t.
‘I’ll promise you this,’ he says. ‘I won’t touch Burleigh’s magic unless it’s losing control and channelling mortar into you. But I won’t promise more than that, don’t ask me to.’
‘I can—’ I begin, and he raises a hand, cutting me off.
‘Do you have to make me say it, Vi?’ Frustration laces Wyn’s words. ‘It would ruin me to watch another Sterling die for this House. To watch you die. I need you to let me help.’
I don’t want to agree. I want to forbid him ever to meddle with Burleigh’s magic again, because I’ve felt it inside me and seen what it did to my father. I hate the idea of mortar touching Wyn, much as I love Burleigh and would do anything in my power to save it.
The House itself is oddly quiet in the wake of remembering Papa’s last night and funnelling magic into Wyn. A faint breeze tangles in my hair. Little marsh lights flicker between the trees in the forest. That’s all, though – no vines, no petals, no wind in the chimney to whisper Burleigh’s unspoken words.
Poor voiceless House. What am I for in this life, if not to speak on your behalf?
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell Wyn, though I feel caught between him and Burleigh. ‘And I can live with that, if you can. But I wish you’d be more straightforward with me. I wish you’d tell me the truth about all this.’
‘I want to,’ Wyn says. ‘And I will. I swear, Violet, I just – have to find the right words.’
‘Where do you go when you work the magic? Because it’s like you’ve left yourself behind. Am I allowed to ask that?’
Wyn turns away from the horizon and gives me a puzzled look. ‘I don’t know. It’s like walking down a corridor that’s endlessly long. It has no start and no end, and all the doors are shut. But when I open them, there’s nothing behind them.’
‘Nothing? You mean the rooms are empty?’
‘No.’ A worried crease forms between his eyebrows as he tries to explain. ‘There are no rooms. I open the doors and there’s nothing. No darkness, no floors, no ceilings, no walls. Just – nothing. I don’t know, I’m not explaining very well, am I?’
A shiver runs through me, from the crown of my head to the base of my spine. ‘No, but it sounds terrifying.’
‘Maybe it was at first, but I’m used to it now.’
‘Wyn?’ I say.
‘Violet?’
I swallow. The words I’m about to speak rest dry and sharp-edged in my throat. ‘I think you should go away after all. Away from Burleigh House, I mean. It isn’t safe here.’
‘Are you going?’
I bite anxiously at one already-mangled fingernail. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘Then I can’t, either. I thought I could, but I can’t.’
The sky out beyond the back woods is flushing pink behind the trees and Wyn shuts his eyes.
‘What did you do while you were on the fens, Vi?’ he asks, and there’s something a little desperate in his voice. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I went fishing every day,’ I say with a smile. ‘Not with a pole like we used in the stream, but with nets and spears. I dug for clams and cut peat and thatch with Jed. I salted fish with Mira and learnt to make ginger biscuits when it stormed. Or at least, she tried to teach me to make ginger biscuits, but I was never very good at it.’
Wyn laughs. ‘She tried to teach me to make ginger biscuits before all of you left, but I wasn’t any good at it, either.’
‘What did you do while I was gone?’ I ask. ‘Not the bad things, just the ordinary ones.’
‘Fixed up the House. Read some books. Grew parsnips,’ Wyn says. ‘We were all right the first few years – the House kept the gardens going for us, but the last couple they needed a great deal of coaxing. Almost everything failed except the parsnips.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘You never really liked parsnips.’
Wyn opens his eyes and looks at me wryly. ‘I hate them now.’
I bite my lip in an attempt to keep a straight face, but can’t quite manage it.
‘It’s all right,’ Wyn says. ‘It is a bit funny. Of all the things, it had to be parsnips.’
The first few rays of sunlight spill over the trees and across Wyn’s face. For a moment I’m breathless, because I know him. I know that half-bashful, quietly pleased expression. Without thinking, I reach out and put a finger to his chin, just as I would have done when we were children.
‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I recognize you.’
Burleigh rumbles ominously beneath us, and at once, Wyn’s face grows severe and closed off again.
‘I’ve got work to do downstairs,’ he mutters
, and with a clatter of tiles, disappears back into the House.
12
‘And then I says to him, I says, where’ll I find a ram to cover the flock at this time of year?’
I will admit, I’m not listening to a word Old John Howard has to say as I hurry back and forth behind the counter at the Shilling, pulling pints and setting them down before uncommonly thirsty country folk. To begin with, there’s the matter of my head, which is spinning after missing a night of sleep out on the roof with Wyn. And – well, that’s the end of it. I’m worn to tatters, and everything around me is a blur.
‘George Sterling’s girl! Another round over here!’
Heaving a sigh, I grab a tray and fill it with mugs, edging my way across the room to a table where half a dozen tenant farmers are playing at dice. Esperanza and Alfred are in a booth up against the wall, sitting side by side rather than opposite one another. They look ordinary and unremarkable – with the princess having passed most of the last eight years in Spain, very few people know her face anyhow, and she seems to rely on that fact allowing her to hide in plain sight. The two of them are poring over a stack of old documents, though I don’t know how they can possibly think with all the noise down here.
The thought of Wyn and his strange way of working House magic is still plaguing me, like the beginnings of a headache I’m pushing through but can’t quite shake, so I stop at Alfred and Espie’s table for a moment.
‘Any progress?’ I ask.
Alfred squints up at me. ‘Hm. Not particularly.’
Esperanza drops her chin on to one hand and gives me a pleading look. ‘Violet, I’m bored. This is so dull. Save me. I’m worlds better at digging up information by flirting at parties.’
‘Just be a little more methodical,’ Alfred suggests. ‘When you find references to—’
‘No.’ Esperanza holds a finger to his lips, shaking her head. ‘No, Alfred. We’re not all librarians at heart.’
‘You can wait tables if you’re really that bored,’ I tell Espie. ‘We could certainly use the help.’
She brightens considerably at the suggestion until Alfred puts a warning hand on her sleeve. ‘Espie. Darling. Your father thinks you’re in London. If someone recognized you, it’d be front-page news across England by the day after tomorrow that the Princess of Wales had been waiting tables in Somerset, and then the king would come down to lecture you. Best keep your head down, unless that’s what you really want?’
Esperanza slumps, defeated. ‘No, you’re right. Sorry, Vi.’
‘It’s fine. But I wanted to ask Alfred something.’
Alfred takes off his spectacles and tucks them into his breast pocket, looking up at me. ‘I’m entirely at your disposal.’
‘Another pint, George Sterling’s girl!’ someone shouts from the counter. I pointedly ignore them.
‘Have you ever heard of a person working House magic without a key, but it doesn’t cause them any harm? Or perhaps it does but it starts with their mind rather than their body?’ I ask.
Espie sits bolt upright. ‘Violet Sterling, are you doing things at Burleigh House that you shouldn’t? I swear, if you’re working House magic, I’ll strangle you with my best jet beads; you know how dangerous that is.’
‘No,’ I say quickly. ‘Or at least, not on purpose. A little by accident, but that’s all.’
‘It doesn’t ring any bells, but I’ll take a look,’ Alfred promises.
I turn aside to head back to the counter but the door swings open and a party of travellers strides in. There’s a gentleman and two liveried menservants, and one of the servants goes at once to the counter to have a private word with Frey. In the heat of the common room, the gentleman sheds his long riding coat and holds it out to me.
‘Here, tavern girl. Take this for me and see it’s kept somewhere safe.’
He looks familiar. There’s something niggling at the back of my mind, half memory, half warning. And then I glance at Alfred and Espie.
Alfred’s gone, vanished like smoke on a windy day. I catch sight of him at the edge of my vision, suddenly tucked in among the dice-playing farmers at a nearby table. Esperanza, meanwhile, is pale beneath the golden hue of her skin, a fixed smile on her face. But she hasn’t moved, and doesn’t quail.
The gentleman walks over to her at once, a surprised expression on his face, and Espie holds out a hand.
‘Lord Falmouth,’ she says as he kisses her offered fingertips. ‘I hope you don’t mind my turning up without warning. Papa said you were coming to Burleigh Halt to keep an eye on the House, so I thought I’d pay a little visit.’
‘On the contrary, I’m delighted, but what on earth are you dressed as?’ Falmouth asks, his voice low and gravelly as he slides into the booth across from Espie. Fear and loathing turn my palms slick. It’s Falmouth who blew a hole in Burleigh’s wall, and alerted the king to my father’s treason.
‘I don’t like fuss, you know that,’ Esperanza says. ‘So I’m not here as the Princess of Wales. I’m here as Esperanza Herrera, a tradesman’s daughter.’
The Duke of Falmouth nods, though he hardly seems to be paying attention. He’s too busy looking at Esperanza as if she’s a frosted cake and he hasn’t eaten since morning.
I step closer to the table and glance pointedly at the princess, letting my voice go decidedly West Country. ‘Is there anything I can get for you, miss? Another cup of tea, perhaps?’ A muzzle for the wolf who just walked in?
Espie gathers up the papers she and Alfred were looking over and hands them to me. ‘Just take those upstairs, won’t you? They’re only plans for my winter wardrobe – no use bothering the duke with any of those.’
I drop a curtsy for good measure. ‘If you need anything, miss, I’ll be over at the counter. Just give a shout.’
‘I meant it when I said be careful with the coat,’ Falmouth warns me. ‘It had better make it up to my room without incident or I’ll take its worth out of you.’
‘Are we having a problem over here? I’m the proprietress of the Shilling, and if there’s trouble, I’m the one who ought to know about it,’ Frey says smoothly, appearing out of the ether. She gives Falmouth a thin smile – the sort I already know she reserves for patrons who are bad news.
‘None at all,’ Falmouth says. ‘I was just asking your serving girl to take extra care with my things.’
‘Go on then.’ Frey gives me a look and jerks her head towards the stairs. ‘I’ll take care of these gentlefolk tonight.’
Falmouth’s footmen are already arranging things in one of the private rooms upstairs. They start like frightened rabbits when I enter the room.
‘It’s not him, it’s just me,’ I say.
One of them takes the coat and I carry on to Alfred and Esperanza’s room. Alfred’s abandoned the dice players and is inside already, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
‘What on earth is going on?’ I ask. ‘Who’s Falmouth to Esperanza? Who are you to Esperanza, for that matter? Why did you run off like that, and what are you doing up here?’
‘I’m nobly hiding,’ Alfred says. ‘Falmouth is Espie’s fiancé. He doesn’t know me, but he’d have been sure to notice her before she got out of the common room. They’ve been engaged for years, ever since her fifteenth birthday. As for what I am, I think she’d better tell you that herself. I’ll take those papers, though.’
I hand them over and head back downstairs, rolling my eyes as I go. Nobility and their entanglements. It’s like a Gothic novel in the West Country these days, between Burleigh and the princess and her assorted lovers.
At least I’m awake now.
Frey positively hovers over Esperanza and Falmouth for the rest of the evening, leaving me to man the counter and listen to John Howard’s litany of wrongs done unto him. It’s past midnight by the time Falmouth retreats to the private gaming room and Espie goes slowly up the stairs.
‘Can I take five minutes?’ I ask Frey as she joins me.
She eyes the common room, which is starting to empty out. ‘Yes, but be quick about it. I’ve got tables for you to clear up.’
I slip up the stairs in Esperanza’s wake and knock softly at her door.
‘Come in,’ she says, her voice muffled.
Espie’s lying on her side on the bed, her head on Alfred’s lap, but when I shut the door behind me, she sits up and wipes at her eyes with the back of one hand.
‘Hello, Violet.’
‘Should I go?’ I ask. ‘I just wanted to make sure you’re all right, not to intrude.’
‘No, it’s fine. And thank you.’
‘So,’ I begin, a little awkwardly. ‘You’re engaged to Lord Falmouth?’
Esperanza rolls her eyes. ‘I am, in a manner of speaking.’
‘Your father seems to like forcing girls into unwanted marriages,’ I say. ‘Are we the only ones he’s tried it with, or does he do it often?’
This time, Esperanza pulls a face. ‘He’s always matchmaking. He likes controlling people – we’re just game pieces to him.’
‘You’ll find a way out of it, though, won’t you?’ I ask, shifting my weight anxiously from one foot to the other. ‘That Falmouth, he’s . . .’
‘An absolute brute,’ Esperanza says. ‘The fact that he’s here to keep an eye on things will be nothing but trouble for you and Burleigh House, Vi. I’m going to see if I can convince him that Burleigh Halt’s too much of a backwater for him to stay more than a night. At least if he lodges in Taunton, you’ll have a little space. And God forbid he find out anything about Alfred. That conversation’s meant to happen in public, in front of my father, not out here with no witnesses, or it’ll be pistols at dawn and widow’s weeds for me.’
I open my mouth and shut it. ‘I’m sorry, did you say widow’s weeds?’
A Treason of Thorns Page 11