A Treason of Thorns

by Laura Weymouth

  ‘This isn’t you,’ I insist. ‘Not the boy I know. There is no we, just you and Burleigh House. Hold on to yourself, Wyn – you’d never do me harm.’

  ‘Really?’ It’s strange and eerie, listening to Wyn’s disembodied voice in the absolute darkness, hearing it grow less and less like his usual tone. ‘What have we ever been but bound, bound to put your needs before our own? We’ve never been free, Violet. Would you even recognize us, I wonder?’

  He’s mostly Burleigh again, wavering back and forth between the two moment by moment, and fear washes over me. I can’t help but feel as if it’s Wyn speaking to me, even when Burleigh’s voice is the one coming from his lips.

  ‘Couldn’t I say the same?’ I retort, falling back on Sterling stubbornness and indignation because there is nothing else left to me. ‘When have you ever known me to be free? Born on these grounds, shedding blood on to your soil every time I skinned a knee or pricked a finger. Told from the time I could speak that you’re meant to be the Caretaker, Vi, and a good Caretaker puts her House first. You bound me yourself when I was five – I’ve spent more of my life with your mortar running in my veins than I have without it. You may be bound, but so am I.’

  ‘Give us what we lost,’ the voice says, and there’s nothing of Wyn left in it, just the scrape of stone.

  ‘I can’t. Not like this.’

  Implacable fingers grasp at my arm and I jerk away, scrambling to my feet. But when I beat my fists against the cupboard door, the vines outside hold fast.

  ‘Wyn,’ I plead, ‘stop this, please, you’re frightening me.’

  For a long moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own rattling breath, a counterpoint to the inhale and exhale of whoever is here in the dark.

  There’s a snap like a small peal of thunder, followed by the smell of burning vines. The cupboard door flies open, and I’m blinded by noon sun, though I walked through the door on a moonlit night. Unforgiving sunshine shows my decaying room, the window seats littered with broken glass and slate roofing tiles, the bedclothes spotted with mildew.

  Wyn stands in the shadows behind me. His skin is grey and rough as mortar, but his eyes are his own.

  ‘There’s something here Burleigh doesn’t want you to find,’ he says, wincing as if the words burn his mouth. ‘Out in the back woods, past the trout stream. Everything’s a muddle and I don’t know what it is, but maybe it’s what you’re looking for. Maybe it’s the heart of the House.’

  Already the grumble of stone is creeping back into his voice, and his eyes are glazing over with a film of mortar.

  ‘Stay with me,’ I murmur, stepping closer and pressing my lips to his forehead, his jawline, his mouth. ‘Don’t leave me, Wyn. I want you with me when all this is over. None of this matters without you – not Burleigh, not a Caretaker’s key, not my name or my land or my legacy.’

  His eyes clear and fix on me. ‘Vi. There’s no time. Go.’

  With one last regretful look at him, standing half in shadow, half in sunshine, I gather my courage and bolt.

  28

  I wish I’d put on shoes after waking to that fever dream of Mama and Papa. As I hurtle down the stairs, a dark and all-encompassing malice rises up through my bare soles. The House is unhappy, but I know who I am again. I know my purpose, and I will not stop for anything, not even Burleigh.

  The sun hangs low on the western horizon as I burst through the conservatory door and wing my way across the rose garden. The light’s lengthening preternaturally fast – I have no way of knowing how much time I’ve spent within the walls. The roses have resumed their dry, decayed aspect, now my mind is free of Burleigh’s influence. The wildflower meadow lies dead and dying too. Halfway down the well-worn path at its centre, a thistle pierces one of my already damaged feet, but I keep going, ignoring the pain that jolts up my leg with each step.

  The woods loom ahead. There’s a gap in the wall of brambles surrounding them that wasn’t there before. I step through the gap, and am overwhelmed by a dreadful sense of unease, the sort of taut energy a wild creature possesses before taking its prey. It renews my sense of urgency, and I hurry along, twisted trees flashing by at the edge of my vision, reaching out to me with grasping twigs. I don’t know if it’s just the normal way of reaching branches or if the House is trying to slow me, but I don’t stop to find out. Leaping over fallen trunks and low spots where fetid water pools on the ground, I head for Burleigh’s heart, and for this journey’s end.

  My lungs burn and my legs shake by the time the trout stream appears as a glimmer through the trees. When the stream bank approaches, I gather myself without slowing and jump for all I’m worth.

  The landing forces a yelp from me. Part of the thistle must still be lodged in my foot, because it feels as if I’m stepping on knives each time I shift my weight. But there’s no time, no time. The pain in my feet is already matched by pain in my head. It blurs my vision and sets the forest spinning and, worse yet, dulls my wits.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the heartstone, gripping it tight. Let it remind me. Let it hold my focus.

  Still, as the pain in my foot grows, I slow, and limp, and finally sit to pull the spines from my sole because it’s foolish to run when every step is an agony. By the time I’ve yanked all the spines free and wrapped the wound with a strip torn from my skirt, I’m not sure what I’m doing so far into the woods. There’s no reason to wander so far from Burleigh, when the House has only ever looked after me and I’ve never wanted anything but to be together with it.

  Getting to my feet, I’ve nearly decided to go back home, but then I see a figure moving through the trees near the edge of the grounds, starting and stopping as they go. With a frown, I walk towards them.

  When I’m close enough to make out who it is, everything comes crashing back. I remember who I am once more: Violet Sterling, Caretaker by default of this ancient and vicious place, this House of fearsome beauty, with its violent desire to be free no matter the cost. I am all that and more, since Wyn’s life depends on my success. I’ve never been much of a one for games, but I’ve gambled everything on this endeavour.

  And I haven’t found my House’s heart. Instead, I’ve found the Duke of Falmouth, His Majesty’s dirty hands, burning my beloved Burleigh’s forest. Falmouth strides through the back woods with a bucket of oil, dousing the trunks of twisted, mortarous trees. When a dry twig snaps beneath my feet, he glances up and gives me a wolfish smile.

  ‘Miss Sterling. I caught a glimpse of you earlier but you were – how shall we say it – not yourself? Well done, Burleigh House, she looked absolutely bewildered. Ripley Castle never got nearly this far into the Ingilby girl’s head.’

  The ground trembles beneath my feet and a breeze whips up, whispering angrily among the tree branches. It’s heavy with the scent of damp earth and lamp oil. I cross my arms and glare at Falmouth, trying to make myself small and stubborn and thorny. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to finish this,’ Falmouth says, setting down his bucket and stepping into the path between me and the House. ‘It’s so much tidier this way – we can’t very well have you unbinding Burleigh, not even to save the place. Can you imagine if you succeeded? There’d be a general uproar, and people would be asking why every House can’t be unbound.’

  ‘Why can’t they?’ I ask, belligerence weighting my words.

  Falmouth shakes his head. ‘You know why. This isn’t personal, Miss Sterling, it’s politics – no one likes to give up power, and the Great Houses are power. His Majesty’s power and, by extension, mine.’

  ‘You’re a villain,’ I say, and try to step around him.

  But Falmouth stays in front of me, blocking the way. ‘Am I? Am I really? Look around you, Violet. There’s only one villain in these grounds, and that’s the House itself. Burleigh is already wreaking havoc in the West Country. Crops are failing – have already failed. Mortar’s leaking out into the countryside and poisoning the earth. And what’s this I h
ear about Burleigh and your father binding that boy? We’ve all hedged our bets here, Violet. Your father took precautions should you fail. I’m taking precautions to ensure you don’t succeed.’

  ‘If the king wanted to burn me alive with Burleigh, he should have just done it at the beginning of summer,’ I snap. Falmouth’s under my skin, though I shouldn’t let him nettle me. ‘Why wait all this time?’

  ‘Oh, he had no intention of burning Burleigh with you inside the grounds,’ Falmouth purrs. ‘You’re a bit of a blind spot for the king – I doubt he’s even serious about hanging you. But I don’t like the idea of the House damaging more of the land while you’re in here, or if you fail – there’s that little matter of the rents I’ll be collecting when all this is over, you see. As per your agreement with His Majesty, the land in these parts will still be mine. So I took the initiative, and now I’ll trouble you for the deed. Can’t have you running back to the House and unbinding Burleigh while it’s already ablaze.’

  I shake my head and glance past him at Burleigh, but he’s blocking the way and the forest floor beyond the path is a sinuous tangle of brambles. Even if the way were clear, I can’t leave him, not with the forest drenched in oil and ready to go up in flames.

  Falmouth adjusts one of his cufflinks fastidiously. ‘The deed, Miss Sterling,’ he repeats.

  ‘Never.’ I scowl at him.

  ‘Very well.’ He reaches into his jacket pocket. Light gleams on metal, and by the time my mind’s processed that it isn’t a tinderbox in his hand, it’s a pistol, the aftermath of a shot is already echoing through the air. Pain like I’ve never known splinters up my right leg and I crumple to the ground.

  But I never let go of the heartstone.

  The Duke of Falmouth walks over and stands above me, pistol still in hand. On his watch chain, I catch a glimmer of red – the bowstone of Burleigh House’s key. It sickens me to see it in his possession, and I grasp the stone more tightly.

  ‘You’re a foolhardy creature,’ Falmouth says with a shake of his head. ‘Don’t know when you’re beaten, just like your father. I would advise you to lie very still, and hope Burleigh House thinks enough of you to make this quick.’

  I watch through blurred vision, clutching the place where his shot lodged in my leg. Blood pours out over my hands, and it’s coming far too fast, slicking my palms and pooling on the forest floor. I stuff the heart-stone into my pocket to get a better grip, but it’s not enough. Where my skin still shows through the scarlet stains, I can see myself growing paler.

  Falmouth’s footsteps retreat a little way, and I hear the striking of a match. Then the flare of flames, followed by a sudden, acrid billow of smoke.

  ‘Goodbye, Miss Sterling,’ Falmouth says. ‘Pity about the House. I would have enjoyed bringing it to heel.’

  ‘Burleigh, I need you,’ I whisper, and the slur of my own words alarms me. ‘I know we’re at odds, but I need you.’

  Everything in me stiffens as House magic rushes up from the ground and pours mortar through my veins.

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ I gasp frantically. ‘Stop it, Burleigh, you’ll kill me.’

  But the magic doesn’t stop. I curl up on my side and stare at the leaves carpeting the forest floor, as with each heartbeat, blood rushes out of me and mortar rushes in.

  29

  I don’t know when I’ve ever been so cold. But in a way, it’s a mercy because I can feel nothing else. None of the other pains – my splitting head, my torn feet, my bleeding leg – even register any more. The trees waver and spin, and I glance down at the place where Falmouth’s shot struck me, a handspan above the knee.

  Mortar rimes the edge of the wound. It’s already slowed the flow of blood, making it sluggish and thick. I watch as, little by little, mortar seals my torn flesh altogether. As it does, the flood of magic pouring into me abates. I won’t bleed to death, so long as I survive the mortar itself.

  I never should have doubted my House.

  Falmouth, still lighting fires nearby, grunts to himself, as if he’s not sure whether to be put out or glad. I hear the sound of him fiddling with his single-shot pistol, the leaden clink of another ball entering its chamber, the little hiss of gunpowder being added.

  Then there’s a flurry of crackling dead leaves, followed by the sound of two solid things striking against one another. I struggle to push myself up on one elbow. Falmouth is on the ground, reeling, and just as he stood over me Wyn stands over him now, holding a splintered beam, ready to strike again. And I can’t tell who he is, the boy I know or Burleigh, or both at once. All I know is that there is something strange and vicious on his face that I have never seen there before.

  ‘Stop it, Wyn,’ I gasp, to whoever’s wearing the body of the boy I love. Veins of darkest grey are running through his already stony skin. ‘The House is forbidden to take a life, except as part of its bond or unless the king bids it to, and you’re more than half Burleigh now. If you break another part of the binding—’

  ‘Have you looked at him?’ Falmouth’s voice is bitter. He kneels in the bracken and glances up at Wyn. ‘Whoever he was, there’s no coming back from this. He’s not the boy you knew any more – Burleigh’s brought him to ruin, just like it will do to all the West Country if you unbind it, or let it have that stone. Do you know what I’m really doing here, Violet? I’m saving the countryside from you and Burleigh House. From the reckless foolishness of Sterlings, who believe this place can be better than it is.’

  I look at Wyn, and for a moment I see him as Falmouth does – as something made monstrous by Burleigh’s power. As someone past the point of no return.

  But it’s only for a moment, and then my vision clears, and in spite of all his changes I see only this when I look at Wyn: the friend of my childhood, and of my heart. Turning to the forest, already filling with smoke, and to the glimpse of the House between the trees, I don’t see ruin, either. I see something worth saving, no matter how far it’s fallen. No matter the things it’s done.

  In the end, I suppose this is my gift and my curse – that however Burleigh or Wyn may change, however much damage they inflict or suffer, they will always be lovely and worthy of love to me. And I will never stop fighting for them, or hoping for a world in which they are both whole and well.

  I sit up, shedding leaves, and try getting to my feet, but my legs buckle. Once more I try to stand, and it does no good. I feel half made of stone myself, I’m so full of mortar, and somewhere inside me, the lead pistol shot scrapes against bone.

  ‘She’s going to die,’ the Duke of Falmouth says. ‘Why not make it quicker for her, Burleigh? You know this will only go one way – the girl was bound to failure from the start, as surely as you’ve been bound to the king and the boy’s been bound to you.’

  ‘Shut up and don’t move.’ However he may look, it’s Wyn speaking, not Burleigh.

  ‘Or what? You’ll kill me and break your binding?’ Falmouth retorts. ‘I don’t think you’d dare.’

  Wyn ignores him.

  ‘Violet, take out the heartstone,’ Wyn says.

  Mutely, I obey. But the moment I do I begin to bleed again, as the power of Burleigh’s missing piece leaches both blood and mortar from my veins. Wyn reaches out and places his own hand over the stone, still cupped in my palm.

  I take in a trembling breath as warmth, rather than ice, spreads within me. I have never felt a magic like this before – one that suffuses my limbs with blissful well-being, and whispers of spring and rebirth. The lead ball works its way free of my bones, my sinew, my skin, and drops to the forest floor. The torn flesh left in its wake knits back together. Painstakingly slowly, a little of the ice begins to melt from my blood, mortar dripping from my fingertips and pooling beneath my feet.

  Around us, too, the woods begin to green. Brambles recede. Bluebells carpet the ground in their wake and the nearest trees burst into summer life, hale and whole once more, except for those that are already in flames. I gaze on it all in wonderme
nt.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask Wyn.

  ‘House magic,’ he says with a smile. ‘The way it’s meant to be.’

  Anguish gnaws at me, though, because while it’s worked on everything else, the heartstone has done nothing for Wyn. Even as he smiles, there’s an emptiness behind his eyes, and I wonder how much more magic he can channel before Burleigh claims the last of him and he becomes nothing but an empty shell for the soul of the House.

  But then the Duke of Falmouth turns, and the pistol’s in his hand once more.

  ‘All right, I’ve got to be going, so which of you is first?’ he asks with that wolfish smile. ‘And if I shoot the boy, will anything actually happen?’

  Wyn steps forward. ‘Why don’t you try it, and find out?’ he says softly, standing only a few paces from Falmouth.

  The duke raises his pistol, but as he does, Wyn raises a hand too. Not quickly, not aggressively, not as if he’s about to wrest the firearm away. Falmouth frowns as Wyn reaches out and touches one finger to his wrist.

  That’s all it takes. A torrent of killing magic roars through Wyn and into Falmouth. The duke sinks to his knees, shaking like a leaf on the wind. For a moment, a cloud of smoke hides him from view, but when the air clears again, I watch in horror as vines burst from his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. He falls, and Burleigh’s ravenous greenery consumes him utterly.

  ‘Wyn,’ I choke, scrambling towards him. ‘Wyn, are you still there?’

  He turns to me, and for the briefest moment, there’s a familiar light in Wyn’s eyes. ‘I’m glad I was brave enough for you,’ he says.

  Then the last of that light leaves him. When I reach out and brush a hand against his face, there’s no feeling of waiting, of temporary absence. Not the faintest spark.

  ‘Wyn, come back,’ I beg, taking his face in my hands. ‘It’s Violet – please, come back to me.’