A Treason of Thorns

by Laura E. Weymouth

  But a few brave souls were already emerging from the houses along the bay. They ran to us, and helped me pull Papa up past the high-water mark.

  “Where’s your mother?” the fisherman who’d warned us of the storm asked gruffly.

  It was only then that I looked, and saw she’d been good to her word. The carriage was gone. I had never felt so lost as in that moment, knowing my mother had fled and my father might breathe his last at any time.

  They put us up in the public house and I stayed at Papa’s bedside for three nights as he alternately shook with chills and burned with fever. Mortar leaked from his pores, staining the bedsheets and filling the room with an unnatural, stony smell. I clung to Burleigh’s key, never letting it go whether I woke or slept.

  On the fourth day, rescue came, although it was not Mama. I never saw her face again after that day, and never really forgave her. Instead there was a great clamor outside and His Majesty the king swept into the room. I ran to him with a choking cry and he put his arms around me.

  “Violet, my darling girl, I’m here to make everything alright,” he said.

  And he did. Uncle Edgar took care of the arrangements for us to return home and rode in a carriage with me all the way. He distracted me with card games and sleight of hand while Papa, still delirious, rode in another coach with the king’s own physician.

  But when we arrived at Burleigh House, Uncle Edgar stopped at the gate. At the end of the drive, the House sat forlornly. Half the shingles had been torn from the roof and littered the lawn. Every window had shattered, as if blown out by a blast of gunpowder. The front door lay on the gravel drive, torn from its hinges.

  “I won’t go in,” Uncle Edgar said, patting my hand. “Dr. Foyle will stay with you until George is well. But the House won’t want me on the grounds, not when it’s like this. They’re touchy about the deedholders, you know—don’t like us seeing them at anything but their best.”

  I took him at his word, and waved as his carriage jolted back down the lane. Once he’d disappeared from view, I stepped through the gate only to be met by Wyn, hurtling across the lawn. He threw his arms around my neck, and, astonished, I hugged him back.

  “Is everything alright, Wyn?” I asked.

  He nodded, eyes wide. “It is now.”

  When Dr. Foyle helped Papa from the second coach, sweat still stood out on my father’s forehead and his face was very pale. But when he looked at Wyn and me, his eyes were clear and kind.

  “Violet, give me the key.”

  Without hesitation, I held out a hand. Since that moment on the beach, I’d gripped the key tight ever since he’d given it to me. It hadn’t even gone into my pocket, not once.

  Papa took the key with a sigh and settled himself down on the front doorstep, leaning against the House for support.

  “Sir,” Dr. Foyle protested. “You must go to bed at once.”

  “No,” Papa said. “Not until I’ve helped Burleigh set itself to rights.”

  I sat down at his side, and he rested a hand on the top of my head. “You did very well, Violet. Very well indeed. What a Caretaker you’re going to be.”

  Pride flooded me from head to toe, even as the vast weight of Burleigh’s focus and power settled on Papa and he shut his eyes.

  “Where’s Mama?” I asked Wyn quietly.

  He shook his head. “Oh, Violet.”

  “Where is she?” I asked again, my voice sharper.

  Wyn fixed his eyes on the ground. “She took all of her things and left. I don’t—I don’t think she means to come back.”

  “Papa?” I turned to my father, but his face was drawn and his attention entirely absorbed by Burleigh House.

  Squaring my shoulders, I stood and took Wyn’s hand in mine. “Well, we’ll be alright, won’t we? We always are.”

  But the words sounded flat, and hollow.

  They still do, as I mutter them under my breath in the wreckage of Burleigh’s ballroom. I feel every bit as alone and unsure of myself as I did in that moment.

  I told Wyn the truth—I haven’t changed at all. It’s only taken a day back at home for me to lose the surety I’d gained on the fens.

  “What am I going to do, Papa?” I say to the air, and the earth, and the walls.

  “He’s not going to answer, you know,” a sardonic voice says from behind me. Scrambling to my feet, I turn, and my stomach drops clear through the ruined floor.

  His Majesty the king stands in the doorway, brushing an imagined fleck of dust from the snowy lace edging his sleeves. “Fortunately, I’m here to sort out your little troubles, though I must say, you’re not managing the House nearly as well as I’d hoped. Shall we have a chat?”

  9

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? HOW DID YOU GET IN?” I ask the king after taking him to Papa’s study and settling into the chair behind the desk. I suppose I should be more formal, but old habits die hard. And then there’s the matter of the bitterness that still churns in my stomach every time I look at my godfather.

  Burleigh’s unhappy with the king’s presence, too. I can feel the House’s discontent seeping up through the soles of my still-bare feet.

  “I’m the deedholder,” His Majesty says mildly. He takes out a pristine handkerchief and wipes at a spot of dust on the desk. “The Houses can’t actually deny me without damaging themselves, you know. Though I do try to take their feelings into account whenever possible.”

  “Why aren’t you in London?”

  I knead my hands together under the desk. The mortar’s faded from the surface of my skin but I can still feel its chill bite. It will never leave me, now I’ve let it in. Any subsequent House magic worked will only add more.

  His Majesty shrugs. “I thought I’d take the waters in Bath. Spend the summer there, perhaps. I wouldn’t mind being nearby, to keep an eye on you and the House as you settle in.”

  “Leave us alone and we’ll settle in just fine.”

  A pair of guards stand in the hallway outside the study door, and having them in the House makes my skin crawl. The floor is fairly vibrating with Burleigh’s discomfort, and a small pewter figurine rattles across the desk and nearly falls. His Majesty reaches out and catches it with one deft, long-fingered hand.

  The king smiles, and I force a smile of my own in return. If I don’t settle myself and Burleigh in short order, we’re headed for disaster.

  Calm down. Calm down, I think at my frantic House.

  A thin stream of plaster dust falls from the ceiling in the far corner of the room.

  “I’ve brought you a lovely surprise,” the king says. “His name’s Lord Pottsworth. I know you’d prefer to remain at Burleigh House if it pulls through all this”—he waves vaguely at our dilapidated surroundings—“so I’ve come up with a plan. I think Pottsworth’ll do quite nicely for the new Caretaker, and a husband for you. Then you can stay on here with him, and be with Burleigh House.”

  The king beams at me, as if I’m a child to whom he’s just handed a lolly.

  “I beg your pardon?” I stare at the king in disbelief. “I am not getting married. Not now. Possibly not ever.”

  “Oh, come now,” His Majesty says. “Pottsworth’s entirely unobjectionable—you can overrule him about household decisions whenever you like, and as you’ll be satisfied, I suspect the House will be as well. So run along, and make yourself charming. You’re getting married.”

  I cross my arms, though my heart is pounding in my ears and my hands have started to tremble. It has less to do with my own fear, which I can feel swimming beneath the surface of my conscious mind like a starving shark, and more to do with the furious power churning through the House. “You promised you’d give me time with Burleigh. I’ve had barely a day. I’m not going anywhere, and certainly not to my own wedding.”

  His Majesty manages a regretful look. “I’m afraid you are. Burleigh?”

  The floor shifts, tipping my chair and spilling me onto the floor. I bark my shin against the corner of the d
esk and sit for a moment in a miserable heap, fighting back tears and anger and nausea as beneath me, the House’s feelings pulse through my skin.

  Sorrow and rage. Sorrow and rage.

  His Majesty gets up and stands over me. “Come along then, my dear. Do as you’re told, and everything will go well for you. Disobey, and I will show you how incapable this House is of resisting my orders for long, whatever its sentiments may be.”

  Sorrow and rage.

  Fear.

  And the fear is what breaks me. Wordlessly, I take the king’s hand and let him pull me to my feet, though his touch turns my stomach.

  “Good girl.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I knew you’d see reason. You’ve always been a clever thing—far more sensible than your father.”

  I say nothing because if I speak, the bitter words that spill out will surely cost both me and my House dearly.

  “Go on then,” His Majesty urges. “Do whatever it is young girls do on their wedding days. And smile, Violet. This is a happy occasion, for both you and the House. Soon you’ll have a perfectly serviceable Caretaker to make use of.”

  Sorrow. Rage. Fear.

  I don’t want anyone else to be Caretaker. Neither does Burleigh. And blood and mortar, I do not want to get married.

  I wander into the hall, hardly able to think through the fog of the House’s feelings and the pressure of its unspent magic. One thing’s clear: I need to get His Majesty off the grounds before Burleigh loses its composure.

  “Uncle Edgar,” I say as he joins me in the corridor. “I’m just going to need a moment to get dressed, as you say. Why don’t we meet out in the lane?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Because of Burleigh?”

  My face burns as I answer. “Yes. Because of Burleigh.”

  “Oh, very well.” The king runs a finger along the study doorpost, and the whole frame shudders. “You have your work cut out for you here if you’re going to stave off the inevitable, Violet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a House in such a state.”

  I swallow back a retort, reaching out and resting a comforting hand on the nearest wall instead. But as I do, the icy bite of House magic gnaws at my skin, turning my fingertips grey.

  Burleigh’s doleful, apologetic even, and yet here it is. My second dose of House magic since waking. I’d make a widower of Lord Pottsworth in a month, at this rate.

  “Well, I’ll see you shortly, Uncle Edgar,” I say with half a curtsy, and hurry up the stairs. All the way to the second floor, I run my hand along the banister and watch as more mortar spreads through my veins.

  What can I do, though? Burleigh needs help and it’s not in me to refuse my House, whatever the cost.

  By the time I shut the bedroom door, my skin is grey to the wrists and I can hardly feel my hands. Nevertheless, I sink down next to the bed and press my numb fingers to the floor.

  “Peace, Burleigh,” I whisper. “Peace.”

  But the House’s anguish and rage and fear at the king’s presence are all still roiling in its walls, and in my blood. I squeeze my eyes shut, because my head feels fit to burst and the light hurts me.

  Cold creeps further and further up my arms.

  Distantly, I hear a whine of hinges as the bedroom door opens, and then Wyn’s voice cuts through the fog of Burleigh’s pain or my own, I’m not entirely sure which it is anymore. But that can’t be right. Wyn left.

  “You’ve got to stop this,” he says sharply, his tone all splinters and thorns.

  “I’m not doing anything!” I manage to protest. My eyes fly open as Wyn settles on his knees in front of me and takes both my hands in his own. I may not be able to feel much, but I can feel that.

  “Not you. The House. I’ll torch it myself if it doesn’t stop.”

  A fierce gust of rain lashes the window in response. Is it raining? The sky was clear a moment ago, unless I’ve been sitting here taking in mortar for longer than it seems. I’m not used to Burleigh’s sudden changes anymore—they were once a matter of course, and now they take me by surprise.

  “That’s enough,” Wyn says, and I know he’s not speaking to me this time because there’s something fierce and compelling about his voice, like I’ve never heard before.

  Immediately, the pressure in my head lets up as Burleigh’s focus shifts. Slowly, slowly, warm and living blood runs back through my veins. The icy touch of mortar begins to let up as its flow reverses, draining out of me and into Wyn. When I look at him, his eyes are fixed on mine, but vacant and unseeing.

  “Wyn?” I breathe. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer—just sits there, and it’s as if his body is nothing but an empty shell.

  I look down at our clasped hands. Wyn’s are pale as ever, and dusted with a few freckles, but there’s no sign of the mortar that’s leaving me to run beneath his skin. No grey poison threading through his veins. And yet, somehow, the House magic is working in him. I can feel it, passing out of my body and into his.

  The last of it goes, but Wyn’s gaze stays blank and lightless.

  I don’t know what to do. A helpless rage, choking in its futility, floods me from head to toe.

  Then Wyn blinks, and his eyes focus on me.

  “I saw the king’s coach while I was on the road to Taunton,” he says, as if absolutely nothing has happened. “So I turned around to warn you, but clearly he beat me here.”

  “What was that?” I ask, ignoring what he’s just said. “What did you do with the House magic? I’ve never seen anything like that before. Never even heard of something like it.”

  Wyn pulls his hands away from mine and hunches his shoulders, growing prickly and withdrawn once more. “Don’t worry about it. What did His Majesty want?”

  That question’s the only thing that could possibly distract me from what’s just happened. “He came to tell me I’m getting married.”

  I can’t keep despair from my voice. I don’t know how to get around this—though everything in me says to bolt, I can’t. Burleigh is a tether I will not loose myself from. “The king has someone he wants to name Caretaker, and I know if I don’t do as I’m told, he’ll turn me out of Burleigh House. Congratulate me, Wyn.”

  “I will not.” When I glance up, Wyn’s scowling.

  “You’re not getting married,” he says. “You’re Violet Sterling; you’ve never done anything you don’t want to do. So stop being a fatalist and get yourself out of it.”

  “I left Burleigh House. I left my father. I left you,” I tell him, bristling at his tone. “So in point of fact, sometimes I am forced to do things I don’t want to. And I don’t know how to stop this.”

  Wyn shrugs. “We were children when you left the House. We’re not children anymore. Think of something.”

  I let out a growl of frustration. “It’s not that easy!”

  Getting to his feet, Wyn makes for the door.

  “I’m going down to the kitchen to talk to Mira,” he says as he goes. “I’ll stay for an hour. If you’ve found a way out of this by then, I’ll stay longer—give you the fresh start you wanted. But if you let the king bully you into a marriage of convenience, I’ll be gone again by the time you’re back.”

  I scoff. “As if your presence is some great prize. I’m not sure I even want you here anymore.”

  Wyn turns, and gives me a long-suffering look. “I’m not the prize to be won, Violet. Your freedom is. If you win it, I’ll stay awhile, because you could clearly use the help. But I won’t stay on only to watch you be ground down under the heel of His Majesty’s boot.”

  He shuts the door behind him, and as he goes, all my despair is replaced by anger and stubbornness and determination. That’s always the way with us Sterlings—we fight our hardest when backed into a corner. When facing down the impossible.

  I clench my fists and scowl at the door, because of course Wyn knows that. This is no different from the time I hit my head, slipping on damp rocks in the streambed at the back of the grounds.
Too afraid to leave me to run for help, Wyn pulled me to my feet and jeered and bullied and cajoled until we made it back to the House. It’s not so bad, Violet, don’t fuss over nothing, you’re being ridiculous, he’d said. I remember Mira shrieking at the sight of me, covered in blood, and Wyn disappearing the moment Jed took charge. It wasn’t until after I’d had my head bandaged and been washed and dressed that I found Wyn, in my cupboard as always. His hands were still shaking, but he’d got me home by waking that Sterling stubbornness.

  “Alright, then,” I say, squaring my shoulders. “Burleigh House, I don’t want to get married. You don’t want a new Caretaker. What are we going to do?”

  Two figures flicker to life across the room—myself, no older than six, and the king. Little Vi sits on one side of a small card table drawn up before the fire, His Majesty on the other. They’re playing a game of écarté, and the king takes trick after trick before Little Vi finally pushes back her chair in frustration.

  “Uncle Edgar, I don’t want to play anymore,” she says with a stamp of her foot. “You always win. And I had the king of trumps this round! It isn’t fair.”

  His Majesty smiles indulgently. “Life isn’t fair, my dear. Some people win and some lose. You must learn to play a better game.”

  Little Vi’s only answer is to cross her arms stubbornly and scowl.

  The king leans toward her. “I’ll tell you a secret. The truth is, you’re getting very good at écarté. Truly. You’ve improved by leaps and bounds since we first began playing. I think by now, you could beat most people.”

  “When will I beat you?” Little Vi squints cannily and the king throws back his head and laughs, an uproarious and unbothered sound.

  “No one beats me, Violet Sterling. Do you know why? I am the king of trumps.”

  “What am I, then?”

  The king reaches out and pats Little Vi on the head. “A small queen.” His mouth twists. “And your father, it seems, is a knave. Now. Shall we play again?”

  Little Vi holds her ground. “I said I don’t want to. I’ll only lose.”

  “Of course you will,” the king says. “But it’s such fun for me to watch you try.”