A Treason of Thorns

by Laura Weymouth

  When I let myself out at the back gate, the sky is low and grey overhead. The temperature drops precipitously outside Burleigh’s grounds, and a wind that smells of cold earth whips across the barren fields. Well. At least the long stockings and gloves and scarf I’ve brought along won’t look out of place beyond Burleigh’s walls.

  The gate at the end of Longhill’s lane won’t open. I peer at the hinges in the dim light and realize they’re coated with a layer of thick, dry mortar. The earth is grey with it too, and as I scramble over the gate and make my way towards the farmhouse, signs of Burleigh’s rampant magic are everywhere I look.

  Several acres of apple trees have cracked at the base and fallen to the ground under the weight of leaves and branches plastered with mortar. The cows in the fields are streaked with it, only their faces showing the russet and dun of their fur below.

  Sam Worthing is out front of the farmhouse, sitting on a chair in the ruined garden and brooding. There’s mortar dust showing pale in the creases of his deeply lined and sunburnt face, and caught in his greying brown hair. Papa was fond of telling me that Sam Worthing’s family had lived on this land for centuries, and were as much a fixture of Burleigh Halt as we Sterlings. If they’re forced to leave, I can only imagine what will become of us.

  ‘Hello, Mr Worthing,’ I say sadly. ‘It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Now then, Miss Violet,’ Sam says, and his expression remains unreadable. ‘Have you come to see what your House is doing?’

  ‘I have,’ I say, swallowing back shame. I’ve been so caught up in looking after Burleigh I’ve neglected the countryside. Though how I’d manage to tend to the whole of the West Country and my dying House, and do it all without a key is a bit beyond me. ‘I want to help,’ I tell Sam Worthing.

  He shrugs. ‘You can’t. Not without being a proper Caretaker. And even then, we all know the House is failing. You’d only ever be buying time. Miss Violet, Burleigh’s done well by us in the West Country. We had our days of plenty, but now I reckon it’s time to let it go before it does more damage.’

  A good Caretaker puts her House first and the land it oversees, I remind myself. Before her king. Before her country. Before her own life.

  ‘Whether I have a key or not, I’ve come to do a Caretaker’s job,’ I tell him. ‘Will you show me your farm and your land?’

  He gives me a narrow look. ‘I’m not wanting any trouble, miss. Not from you or the House. What is it you intend?’

  ‘I’m trying to set things right.’ I gnaw at a hangnail and glance around us, at all the ruin my House has wrought. Oh, Burleigh. What are we going to do?

  ‘Well, then you’d better follow me.’

  Sam leads me into the cow byre and a match flares as he lights a lantern in the gloom. I follow him down to the very end of the long row of stalls to where a heifer’s been quarantined as much as space allows. Sam holds the lamp high as I step closer to the ailing cow.

  She lies on her side, breathing heavily, and when I approach, the whites of her eyes show as she follows my every move.

  ‘Sssshhh,’ I say to her. ‘There’s a love. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  I run a hand over her side but it’s easy to see where the problem’s coming from. Above her heart, veins of mortar spread, marring her russet fur, and a bit of that all-too-familiar grey substance runs from one of her nostrils.

  ‘Livestock have been taking ill like that for months now,’ Sam tells me. ‘We say they’ve been mortarstruck.’

  I straighten up. ‘Can we go out to the orchard?’

  The trees look even worse up close. Bark peels from the trunks, revealing damp grey patches, and banks of withered leaves lie on the grass, brambles tangled in among them. There will be no autumn harvest here. This farm, once a place of peace and productivity, has become a wasteland, holding nothing but a promise of starvation for those who stay on it.

  Burleigh is trying, it truly is. I can feel the effort my House spends trying to hold its tainted magic in when I stand on the grounds. The focus and energy required. But all that power must go somewhere, unless Burleigh is burnt and its magic, along with its stone and timber, goes up in smoke. Until then, or until I find the deed and unbind my House, it will continue to poison this land, even if it doesn’t mean to do it.

  All this suffering, of people and places and Houses, and it could all be undone if the king would just loosen his grip on the reins of power.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Worthing,’ I say. ‘But I can fix this.’

  I hope I can, at any rate. But whatever the dangers, I could hardly call myself a Sterling if I didn’t try.

  Sam Worthing seems less than certain, now we’ve come down to it. ‘Miss Violet, if you can’t—’ he begins with an anguished expression, but I cut him off.

  ‘I can. I already told you. But turn your back – House magic worked without a key isn’t a pretty sight. I don’t want you to look.’

  When he’s turned away from me, I kneel, hitching my skirts up so that I’ll feel the earth and the House’s power through the tops of my bare feet, my shins, my knees. Then I sink both hands into what was once rich Somerset soil and smile. Wherever I am, so long as I’m in the West Country, I know my House can see.

  ‘Burleigh House,’ I murmur. ‘Take what you need.’

  There’s no slow, careful doling out of power. No understanding of my human frailty. Instead I’m hit by a wall of dark, sickly energy and everything in me freezes as mortar pours through my veins.

  At first I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t move. All I can do is crouch, transfixed by pain, like an insect pinned to a card or a fish speared to the riverbed.

  But I have my pride, and Sam Worthing, who I’ve known from my childhood, still stands not ten yards away. I will not let the tremors take me. I will not cry out. I will not move my hands from the earth until this magic is done. Until every bit of darkness that has leached into this soil runs into me and leaves the land full of life again.

  Overhead, the sun inches along the sky. The apple leaves shake in a warming summer breeze. And finally I watch as the brambles wither away. As the mortar on every surface crumbles and turns to dust, and that dust is consumed by the earth.

  It is enough.

  It will have to be. I have nothing left to give.

  Sitting back, I pull my hands from the soil. Earth stains them, hiding the mortar that runs beneath my skin, but I can still feel its cold, sluggish poison. It will never leave me. It will rest within my body until someday, perhaps ten years, perhaps twenty, perhaps thirty years from now, I sicken from it and die. Sam looks at me, and it’s as if he’s aged ten years in this last half hour.

  ‘There you are, then,’ I tell him, wiping at the mortar that weeps from my eyes. ‘I’m sorry on Burleigh’s behalf. I promise you, I’m doing everything in my power to fix what’s gone wrong in the West Country. And I pray I’ll have Burleigh restored, or it will be burnt, before your farm gets in such a state again.’

  ‘I’m glad to have the land back,’ he says with a shake of his head. All the bitterness has drained from him, as surely as the mortar is gone from the soil he works. ‘But I’m not sure in the end that it’s worth the price, Miss Violet. Can I help you home?’

  ‘No. Your family’s waiting, and I’ll be all right.’

  I sit in the middle of Longhill Farm’s restored orchard. Some of the trees have fallen, and that can’t be helped, but the rest have shaken the mortar dust from their boughs and sprouted a dozen or more pinkening apples on every single branch. Away towards the byre, I hear a clang and a joyous lowing as Sam lets the penned heifer loose. She kicks up her heels on her way to join her companions, entirely well once more.

  My father’s old watchword churns around and around in my mind. A good Caretaker puts her House first. Before king, before country, before her own life.

  How long will mine be? I wonder.

  I pull on the long stockings I’ve brought, and the riding gloves, an
d tie the scarf around my neck, to hide the grey magic running under my skin. When I’ve finished, I look into the little hand mirror I tucked into the satchel as well.

  Though there are shadows beneath my eyes and an ill look about me, you’d never guess the root of it. You’d never look at me and say, ‘There goes Violet Sterling, a girl with mortar in her veins.’ And by the time I get home tonight, the mortar in me will have become invisible, swimming quietly in my blood, just waiting.

  Someday, I will die for Burleigh House. It’s only become a matter of when.

  18

  ‘You look absolutely appalling, Vi; what have you been doing?’

  I turn round, nearly dropping my tray of cider mugs, and find Esperanza standing in the doorway of the Red Shilling. She’s in riding clothes, smelling of horse and looking exhausted herself.

  ‘You were gone a whole month,’ I mumble. ‘I’ve done a lot, and you’re not exactly a fashion plate yourself, now are you?’ I’ve come straight here from the Worthings’ farm – it’s still the mortar that has me looking like death warmed over, but I’m not about to own to that.

  ‘I suppose not.’ Espie sighs. ‘Did you know I was the best-dressed girl at the Spanish court? My, how the mighty have fallen. I’m absolutely worn out too. Almost as tired as you look.’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ I say.

  Alfred glances up from his omnipresent book and fixes Esperanza with a withering glare, as if they were never apart. ‘I beg your pardon; you’re as ravishing as ever from where I’m sitting. Don’t disparage yourself, love of my life.’

  ‘I smell like the back end of a horse, Alfie,’ she grumbles. ‘Even you can’t possibly be attracted to that.’

  He waves a dismissive hand at her. ‘Eau de cheval is my favourite fragrance, but only on you.’

  ‘I do love you, darling.’ Esperanza sighs.

  I roll my eyes, but blood and mortar, it’s good to have her back. ‘How did it go?’ I ask, because I’ve got to get back to my tables and they’ll be carrying on all night if I let them.

  Espie rolls her eyes. ‘Ugh. A solid month of managing absolutely impossible men. The two of you are a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you that much.’

  ‘You didn’t hear anything promising about the deed, did you?’ I try not to hope, but I can’t help it.

  ‘No,’ Esperanza answers. ‘I wish I had better news for you. I was hoping you’d found something out.’

  ‘Nothing on my end.’ I look down at the floor. ‘And we’re running out of time. Burleigh’s . . . not doing well.’

  ‘We’re still trying,’ Alfred reassures me. ‘We won’t stop looking until, one way or another, there’s no need to look any more. It’s as frustrating for us as for you that none of this is going well. We’d hoped for better, Vi.’

  I force a smile, though I sincerely doubt either of them has been frustrated enough to risk their lives over Burleigh’s plight as I have. ‘I know. And I think the world of you both for helping.’

  ‘I’m not leaving again, not unless we find the deed,’ Espie says. She reaches out to squeeze my hand and I swallow around a suspicious lump in my throat. ‘We’re in this with you till the end. Though my father – well, he told me to remind you that you’ve only got until August, and that you’re not doing very well so far.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I say. ‘As if I didn’t already know.’

  ‘How can I possibly compensate for my appalling family?’ Espie asks. ‘Here, let’s start with exorbitant tips.’ She takes an enormous wad of banknotes from her pocket and pushes it towards me, but I push it back with a roll of my eyes.

  ‘An odd princess,’ Alfred mutters. ‘Spending your allowance on tavern girls and treason, rather than gloves and fans.’

  ‘Well, someone’s got to spend their money on the poor tavern girls, Alfie, since you’re not doing it and it’s usually a gentleman’s prerogative,’ Esperanza answers.

  When I get back to the counter, Frey’s out front for the first time this evening. She’s had meetings with merchants and greengrocers and kitchen staff, and gives me a sharp look as I take a fresh tray of mugs from her.

  ‘A word with you in my office, Violet Sterling.’

  Reluctantly, I follow her down the Shilling’s narrow back corridor, to a tiny room where she keeps the books and does the ordering. Frey’s a fair employer, and more than good to her people, but I’ve been preoccupied of late and wonder if I’m about to get a dressing-down.

  Instead, she taps the back of one of my gloved hands. ‘What are you hiding under there?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I lie again. ‘It’s cold for July, that’s all.’

  ‘Then take your gloves off.’

  Slowly, with a nervous fluttering in the pit of my stomach, I peel them off, willing the mortar in my blood to have faded. But it hasn’t. It’s still there, running under my skin. I’ve been deathly cold all evening, with an intolerable aching and heaviness in my limbs.

  ‘May I?’ Frey asks.

  ‘Oh, go ahead,’ I mutter. ‘Since you knew anyway.’

  She pushes my sleeve up and takes in a quick breath at the sight of yet more mortar veining my arm to the elbow. ‘Violet, you didn’t.’

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid I did. Burleigh’s been getting worse and worse, and Longhill Farm’s borne the brunt of it. I couldn’t just let my House ruin the Worthings like that. They’ve been in the county for ever. But how did you know I’ve worked House magic for them?’

  Frey sits down at her desk, which nearly fills the room, and gestures to the one other piece of furniture, a small wooden chair. ‘Your father started channelling mortar without the protection of a key before his arrest began, during the last year he had his freedom. He said he could shift more of Burleigh’s power that way, get more of the magic that had gone bad out of its system. I saw the signs on him often enough.’

  It doesn’t surprise me. Burleigh was everything to Papa. He must have been wild over its distress, though he never let it show.

  ‘Papa mentioned you in a letter he left me,’ I say. ‘Said you were someone I could trust. Were you very well acquainted?’

  Frey smiles. ‘That’s one way of putting it. We worked together, trying to find the deeds. I’d ask leading questions of patrons in their cups, whenever we had any nobility and their help passing through, and then give useful information to your father. I do the same now, for your friends out front.’ She pauses for a moment before speaking again. ‘Then a while after your mother left, your father and I didn’t just work together any more.’

  ‘Oh. Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Frey. I never stop to think that I’m not the only one who lost him.’

  ‘He was like the sun, your father,’ Frey says. ‘When he was in a room, it felt warmer. There’s not a soul in Burleigh Halt that didn’t grieve when he died, Violet Sterling, and don’t you forget that. He was everything a Caretaker ought to be. But I’ll tell you something – now he’s gone, everyone who lives on your House’s doorstep is just hoping to get through Burleigh’s end in one piece. I know the countryside does better with Burleigh to quicken it, but remember the Sixth House. It’s a terrible risk you’re taking, trying to set that place free.’

  ‘I know.’ I twist one of Mama’s gloves in my mortar-marred hands. ‘But what else can I do, Frey? I’m a Sterling. This is everything I’ve been born and bred for.’

  ‘You can break the mould,’ Frey says firmly. ‘Walk away. Let nature and the king run their course. And then, when the dust has settled and your heart’s mended, I’d be happy to have my serving girl back. Maybe make you a partner someday.’

  It’s a very generous offer. But the mere thought of living on magicless land, so close to what was once my beloved House, works in me worse than mortar.

  ‘I’ll think on it,’ I say. ‘And I don’t take the well-being of the West Country lightly, I promise you that.’

  ‘You can choose your own fate, Violet,’ Frey tells me. ‘Your own priorities. Burleigh doesn’t have to be
your beginning and end.’

  But I’ve never imagined a world like that. I’ve never believed I could.

  Burleigh’s ghosts haunt me. They whisper and murmur in the corners of my room at all hours. I toss and turn at night, and whenever I open my eyes, all I can see in the dark are glowing figures, wavering in the moonlight. The House feels tense and frustrated, as if it knows its own end is drawing nearer. I roll over in bed and static sparks snap from the sheets.

  Another week has gone by, without any new information about Burleigh’s deed. In less than a month, His Majesty will descend with torches, to burn my House and send its magic up in smoke.

  I’ve begun to steel myself for the inevitable. For a binding. For a death.

  And I wonder, sitting up in bed and watching Burleigh’s memories play out around me, if it will remember me once my body has brought it to new land. Will my ghost haunt the halls of Burleigh House reborn? Or will I be forgotten once my sacrifice is made?

  Panic rises in my throat at the thought. I push away the covers and pad into the hall, crouching at Wyn’s side.

  ‘Psst,’ I whisper to him. ‘Wyn. Wake up.’ He rolls over and sleeps on. ‘Wyn.’ I reach out and nudge him. He’s warm with sleep and the corridor is far quieter than my room. Briefly, I’m tempted to slide under the blanket next to him. I sincerely doubt I’d drop off with Wyn so close, though. Of late, there’s not just tension and sparks between Burleigh and me.

  At last, Wyn stirs. ‘Vi?’ His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat, still barely awake as he squints up at me. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Oh.’ Wyn’s eyes drift shut again. ‘Well, try counting sheep.’

  ‘My room’s full of ghosts. They’re too loud. I can’t hear myself counting.’

  Wyn shifts himself closer to the wall and folds the blanket back without opening his eyes. ‘Here. Now go to sleep.’

  Oh dear.

  I slip carefully under the blanket, taking great pains not to touch him. Then I lie flat on my back and stare straight up at the ceiling. Mercy, it’s not particularly comfortable on this floor. He’s a bit of a glutton for punishment, Wyn is.