A Treason of Thorns

by Laura Weymouth

  Wyn. Are you there?

  Ash Wednesday is the day I settle on. It’s before Purim this year, and I don’t think I could smile through a celebration with Jed and Mira. I’ll go back to the fens, I think, where life was simpler and where I knew my way. When I tell Frey, her eyes are kind.

  ‘I understand, Violet. You’ll write, though, won’t you?’

  Mira bakes as if there’s no food to be had in Lincolnshire, and Jed whittles morosely, carving me little replicas of all the marsh birds. Though they’ve offered to come with me, I insist on going alone. They’ve made a life here again, renting a cottage at the edge of Longhill Farm, where Jed still day-labours and Mira takes in washing and mending. I will not uproot them a third time on my behalf, though I’ll miss them desperately.

  I don’t write to Espie to tell her that I’m leaving. She writes to me, though, to say that all of London is in a stir over what’s happened with Burleigh House. There are riots in the street after all, though I face no charges for what I’ve done. Everyone wants freedom for the remaining four Houses, now Burleigh’s unbinding has proved a success, and they’re not keeping quiet about it.

  The last shift I’m to work at the Shilling comes at once too slowly and too soon. As always, I’m kept running across the tavern with trays of frothy mugs that smell of yeast and hops. I’m busy, at least, and it’s a comfort. When I do manage a moment of self-reflection, I remind myself of this: the West Country is prospering. The weather has been just what it ought. Larders are full enough from the autumn harvest to last two winters, rather than just one.

  My House is well, as is the countryside. What more could a Caretaker want?

  And yet.

  Late in the evening, the inn door opens with a bang and a gust of wind that’s still cold after dark. Shouts to close it come from the gathered farmers and I glance up to see a figure shutting the door. He crosses the tavern and sits at the long counter, where he sheds his coat.

  ‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ I sing out. By the time I manage to get behind the counter with an empty tray, I’m breathless and red-faced.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I ask, and stop short.

  ‘Hello, Vi,’ Wyn says.

  For a moment we just stare at each other, and then he smiles. I’d nearly forgotten how a smile pulls his mouth up further on one side than the other, and how he squints just the slightest bit.

  ‘Have you been well?’ Wyn asks.

  ‘Well enough,’ I say slowly. I’m not sure any of this is real. It seems too much like one of the muddled dreams I had last summer, while desperately working to free the House. But someone shouts for another drink, and my unconscious certainly never dwelled much on tipsy West Country farmers.

  I turn with my hands on my hips. ‘Shut it, I’ll be with you in a minute!’

  ‘Sorry.’ I turn back to Wyn, still in shock. ‘And . . . and you? You’re all right? Burleigh too?’

  ‘We are. It’s taken a while, getting things sorted out, but both of us are well, and we’re each of us in one piece, as you can see.’

  I steal looks at him in between polishing glasses. My hands are shaking, though, and I’m afraid of breaking something, so at last I set my rag down and give up the pretext of busyness.

  ‘Wyn, I thought you were dead.’

  ‘So did I,’ he says frankly. ‘Until I realized there was clearly enough of me left alive to think it. And then I started coming back to myself, piece by piece. It took ages, though. I suppose even Burleigh unbound has a hard time working miracles.’

  He smiles again, and my knees go weak. The florid-faced farmer calling for drinks is growing insistent, and I round on him to hide the tears pricking behind my eyes. ‘Harry Mason! Shut up or get it yourself!’

  He grouses a little and hauls himself to his feet, joining me behind the counter, where he fiddles with the tap of the ale keg and mutters under his breath.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ I sigh, pushing him away. ‘Just let me do it.’

  When I’ve settled Farmer Mason with a full mug, I turn my attention back to Wyn.

  ‘What – what will you do now?’ I ask tentatively. ‘Where will you go?’

  Wyn leans forward across the counter, resting his weight on his elbows, and is about to speak when Frey bursts through the back hallway door. I stifle a groan of frustration.

  ‘Oh, blood and mortar, Violet,’ Frey says. ‘What are you still doing behind the counter? I think it’s quite all right for you to end your last shift early if someone’s come back from the dead!’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, and Frey rolls her eyes.

  ‘Quite sure. Give me that apron, and go on.’

  Before I can blink, I’ve been unceremoniously hurried out from behind the counter, and then through the inn door on to the cobbled street.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Frey murmurs. ‘I’m not going to make a fuss, but I wish you all the very best, Vi. And I think you’d better not change your plans. Leave this place behind you, but take that boy along.’

  The door shuts decidedly, leaving Wyn and me alone in the fresh night-time air.

  ‘In answer to your question, I thought I’d go wherever you go, Vi,’ he says at last. ‘If it’s all right. The thing is, you’ve always come first for me. Before Burleigh House, or the countryside, or anything else. None of that’s changed. I’m still for you, so I suppose we’ve just got to sort out who you’re for, now Burleigh’s unbound.’

  I’ll never tire of it, hearing him say that I come first. But we walk, and my feet can’t let their old habits go. Wyn and I are silent for a long time, carrying on side by side with a little space between us. It seems the only sound in the whole world is the crunch of our booted footsteps.

  By the time we reach the front gate of Burleigh House, my stomach is wild with nerves, though I’m not sure why. Wyn, who always knows when I’m anxious, reaches out and takes my hand. His skin is warm and soft and yielding, and a little frisson of sparks tingles between our fingers. Touching him feels uncommonly like magic – not the cold bite of mortar but a lush, living magic. A magic of our own making, that is full of beginnings, and possibility.

  The wrought-iron gate opens before us, restored and free of briars. Burleigh House lies at the end of the drive, a ruin no longer, every line of it gracious and inviting. A few lights already burn inside. The jacaranda tree sways gently, blooming in spite of the weather. It’s all purple shadows and mystery in the moonlight.

  I press a hand to the cool stone of the wall, and think of everything I’ve lost and won, everything I’ve given for this House that now radiates calm and well-being. I think of Wyn too, and what he said to me when I first came back – that even with its gates open, Burleigh can only ever be a prison to him now.

  It’s all right, Violet Sterling, Burleigh seems to say. It’s all right.

  Letting out a trembling breath, I turn to Wyn. ‘I think – I think I’m for me now,’ I tell him. ‘Not Burleigh House. But sometimes I’m for you too.’

  Wyn smiles. ‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ he manages to get out before I kiss him.

  Presently, he takes my hand again and we carry on past Burleigh’s walls, into open countryside.

  ‘Well, Vi,’ Wyn says. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Did you know I own a cottage and a boat, in Lincolnshire?’ I ask. ‘They’re the only things in the world that really belong to me.’

  ‘I belong to you,’ Wyn says.

  ‘You don’t, you know. We belong to ourselves. Have you ever been spearfishing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s not hard. I’ll teach you.’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Much like a Great House, every book requires a small army to build and tend it. In the case of this one, I’m eternally grateful to Alice Jerman, the chief architect of Burleigh and Vi’s story. She saw potential in this book, loved its magic, and cast the vision for what it could be. Alice, you push me to be better and I can
never write a scene now without having you ask in my head ‘But what are they feeling?’ Thank you for your countless instances of help and insight and support.

  None of my books see the light of day without input from the tenacious, brilliant, indispensable Lauren Spieller. She read this as the draftiest possible draft, and helped steer it in the right direction. Lauren, I promise to try and write books with middles and plots provided you’ll promise to let me think I’m right once a year (even if I’m actually wrong).

  Thanks also to my brilliant UK publishing team at Chicken House – the lovely Rachel Leyshon, Laura Myers and Jazz Bartlett Love; to the early readers of A Treason of Thorns who provided invaluable advice and encouragement – Bethany Morrow, Al Rosenberg, Steph Messa, Jen Fulmer, Hannah Whitten, Joanna Meyer and Anna Schafer; to everyone at Triada US Agency who works so tirelessly on behalf of their authors, especially Uwe Stender for putting together such a wonderful team, and Brent Taylor for keeping track of foreign rights.

  And on a more personal note, thank you, thank you, thank you, to everyone who helped me navigate the labyrinth of writing a second book. This means you, Pod, and you, Steph, who made this idea a book in the first place. Truly, I have found my people. Thanks also to Ashley, my most enthusiastic cheerleader; to Mom, my one and only alpha reader/child-minder/laundry-folder/anything I need as I need it; to Tyler who is the best partner I could have on this journey in every regard; and to my girls, who are the reason I do this in the first place.

  If you’re reading this book because you loved The Light Between Worlds and have been with me from the start, thank you. My readers mean the world to me – I cherish each and every word of encouragement from you that comes my way.

  Published by Scholastic Australia Pty Ltd

  PO Box 579 Gosford NSW 2250

  ABN 11 000 614 577

  www.scholastic.com.au

  Part of the Scholastic Group

  Sydney • Auckland • New York • Toronto • London • Mexico City

  • New Delhi • Hong Kong • Buenos Aires • Puerto Rico

  First edition published by Chicken House, 2020.

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Ltd, 2020

  E-PUB/MOBI eISBN: 978-1-76097-505-0

  Text © Laura Weymouth 2020

  Cover and interior design by Helen Crawford-White

  Laura Weymouth asserts her moral rights as the author of this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.