Jed comes home at sundown, tired but pleased to have been offered a place day laboring at Longhill Farm, not far from Burleigh House. We all eat our supper at the staff table and are uncomfortably quiet—I suppose no one wants another row. I can hardly wait to excuse myself, pleading lingering exhaustion after our long days of travel.
No one mentions the king’s visit to Jed, and I’m glad of that. I don’t need him deciding it’d be better to whisk me back to the fens, not now I’ve finally got a plan.
When I leave the kitchen, Jed’s whittling morosely and Mira and Wyn are at the washbasin, cleaning up the dishes. It isn’t that I don’t want to help—I do, and I think tomorrow I’d better go out and find a way to earn my keep—but my time tonight will be best spent on Burleigh.
Stopping in Papa’s study, I scoop his enormous, leather-bound household ledger off the desk and tuck it under one arm. Then I carry on up to my room and shut the door firmly behind me. As I do, a friendly, violet-hued fire springs to life on the hearth. The wardrobe door swings open. The water in the pitcher on my washstand warms of its own accord and lets off a gentle curl of steam. It seems my new sense of purpose has lifted Burleigh’s spirits, too.
Though I’m nearly vibrating with excitement at the prospect of doing something—anything—productive on Burleigh’s behalf, I smile. You’re right, House. I might as well be comfortable before I start poking around in your memories. Better for both of us, if I’m not too keyed up. So I wash with sweet-smelling soap and pull on clean nightclothes and a dressing gown. Not until I’ve finished that do I sit down cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth and let out a trembling breath.
Spreading out Papa’s ledger in front of me, I scan the pages. He wrote everything in here—the price of crops, the dates of repairs, the requests and troubles of tenant farms, where he traveled and when. The last is what I’m looking for.
I scan the pages. Most of his trips have a terse explanation next to them in the margins.
September 14th, 18XX: London for a fortnight. Home Council session.
February 20th, 18XX: Bristol for a week. Arranging shipment of local goods.
But some are a mystery.
October 3rd, 18XX: Poole.
April 25th, 18XX: Minehead.
August 17th, 18XX: Exmouth.
If I know my meticulous father, he couldn’t resist the urge to record and document his illicit search for the deed. Here it is, spelled out in black and white. Just more trips on Burleigh’s behalf—nothing truly noteworthy, unless you knew what he was up to. Then those journeys with no explanation read like a map.
Or at least, I hope to God they do.
I cannot ask Burleigh about the deed outright, for fear of pushing my beleaguered House so far it loses control of its pent-up magic. But Burleigh isn’t bound to prevent talk of my father, and it certainly seems keen on remembering him. I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked the House to remember something before—to dredge up a particular moment in its long and colorful history, and play it out once more.
I’m about to, though. I splay a hand across one of the ledger pages.
May 11th, 18XX: Tintagel, my father’s handwriting proclaims in black ink.
“Burleigh?” I ask. “Do you remember anything about my father going to Tintagel the year I was seven? Can you show it to me, if you do?”
All I expect is conversations—I’ve never seen Burleigh remember something that took place off the grounds, and don’t think it actually can. So I won’t be able to watch Papa’s excursions, but perhaps he said something of use before leaving or after returning home.
I wait. At first, nothing happens. No rippling ghosts appear from thin air. But then, everything goes suddenly and entirely dark. I wave a hand in front of my face and can’t see a thing.
“Burleigh?” I repeat. My own voice sounds strange and muffled. Panic begins to rise in my throat. I can feel the House’s attention churning restlessly around me, but there’s no loss of control yet. No mortar seeping cold into my skin.
After a moment, the darkness begins to fade, replaced by the morning light of a grey and overcast day. An overwhelming wave of vertigo hits me as I see Papa’s study, overlaid on top of my bedroom. Everything in it ripples and shimmers, until Burleigh’s light-on-water memory seems like reality and the solid presence of my room like a mirage. I blink and squint until at last, my mind accepts this strange duality and settles into Burleigh’s recollection even as my body remains cross-legged on the hearthrug.
The first person I see is Mama. Something in me twinges at the sight of her. She and Papa sit opposite each other on two armchairs drawn up by the study fire, but there might as well be a world between them. It’s easy to see they’re already at odds—she sits with her knees angled away, staring out a window. And Papa is withdrawn, closed off within himself, a map of the West Country spread out before him.
“I’ll be off again next week,” he says, after a long and agonizing silence.
Mama sighs. “And where are you going on the House’s behalf this time, George?”
She keeps her eyes fixed on the dim sky and lush grass of the lawns outside, rendered a ghostly blue by Burleigh’s memory.
Papa glances down at his map. “Tintagel first, I think. I’ll carry on down the coast for a few days afterward, search everything between there and Port Isaac. It feels a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, though, without anything more concrete to go on yet.”
“Oh,” Mama says, and the single word is cold as ice.
My hands involuntarily ball into fists at my sides. I hate dredging up my family’s unhappiness. If it didn’t serve a purpose, I would never raise these particular ghosts.
“Why don’t you take the boy with you?” Mama says, and for the first time I notice Wyn. He’s crouched under my father’s desk with a blank book and a stub of pencil, sketching away.
Papa gives her a reproachful look. “Eloise, you know I can’t.”
Mama turns away from the window and her eyes are as cold as her voice. “I don’t like having him here. You never should have brought him home with you.”
“He won’t be any trouble.” There’s almost a pleading note to Papa’s words, and I fight the urge to stop my ears. “Mira will look after him, if you’d rather not.”
“Violet will look after him and there will be nothing I can say to stop her,” Mama answers. “She adores the boy, and I know you encourage her, but to what purpose, George? It’ll end in heartbreak. Perhaps you’re raising her to be a Caretaker, but she’s not you. She doesn’t give up the things she loves so easily.”
“Eloise, please.” Papa frowns at her. “He can hear you.”
“Do I look as if I care?”
Mama gets to her feet and sweeps from the room.
“Wyn,” Papa calls softly. “Come out, Wyn. I want to show you something.”
Wyn scrambles out from his hiding place and approaches step by slow step, like a wild cat, or an anxious rabbit.
“Do you see this map?” Papa holds it up and Wyn nods. “This is the sea. And all along the coast there are caves. I’m going to search for treasure that’s hidden in one of them.”
“What sort of treasure?” small Wyn asks. “Gold? Diamonds?”
“Even better,” Papa says. “Someday when I find it, I’ll bring it home and show you, and I think you’ll agree it’s very nearly the most precious thing in the world.”
Wyn’s already lost interest in treasure, though.
“What—what does the sea look like?” He puts out a finger and traces Cornwall’s coastline on the map. “Will I ever see it? Can I go with you?”
Papa’s smile is sad. “It’s very big, Wyn. And I hope someday you will see it, but I can’t take you along this time.”
A muffled thump sounds outside my bedroom door.
“Burleigh, stop,” I hiss, not wanting Jed or Mira to have to see the reality of what I’m up to. It’s bad enough they know I’m going after the deed—I might as well spare them hav
ing to think on it too often. Immediately, the House plunges me back into darkness and when my vision clears, there’s only my room around me. The ghostly overlay of Burleigh’s memory has gone.
I sit, waiting for a knock, but it never comes. So I get to my feet and peer out, only to find Wyn in the corridor. He’s got a tattered blanket and moth-eaten pillow and is fussing about in the hall like a wolfhound bedding down for the night. For a moment, I can’t quite reconcile the small boy I remember with who he’s become. It’s as disorienting as having Burleigh take over my reality.
“What are you doing?” I ask Wyn, unable to keep a disgruntled note from my voice.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says tersely. “I won’t bother you.”
“Wyn,” I say again. “Answer the question. What are you doing?”
“Burleigh’s restless about something,” he says. It’s true the House’s attention is still bent on me as it continues to mull over the memory I asked for. “I don’t want it getting upset and deciding you make an easy outlet for its magic again.”
I bite my lip, not wanting to tell him that it’s mostly my fault the House is restless. But Wyn bringing up mortar and magic reminds me of yet another of my manifold unanswered questions.
“That reminds me, I wanted to ask you about this afternoon,” I say. Wyn gives me a sidelong look and settles down on the floor. He lies flat on his back and shuts his eyes. I crouch, because I feel ridiculous towering over him in my dressing gown. “What was that? You were working House magic, weren’t you? I could feel it. But I didn’t see a thing—not a bit of mortar under your skin. How is that possible?”
“I don’t know,” Wyn says without opening his eyes.
“Have you done it before?” I press.
“Mm. Loads of times.”
“Loads of times?” I say in disbelief. “House magic’s terribly dangerous. You know that—you shouldn’t be doing it at all. Was this during the arrest?”
“Yes. Go to bed, Vi.”
“I’m talking to you.” I gnaw at a hangnail anxiously. “I just—I don’t like it, Wyn. Not one bit. What if it’s doing something to you that can’t be seen or felt?”
He opens one eye and peers up at me. “Look, I only did House magic today because you started working it first. In fact, I was leaving Burleigh House. So can we not talk about this anymore? I’d like to go to sleep. You ought to go to sleep. And Burleigh needs to calm down.”
Wyn says the last pointedly, at the walls and the listening air. Burleigh takes the high road, and doesn’t respond.
I get to my feet and shake my head at Wyn, who turns over so that he’s facing the wall.
“You don’t have to sleep in the hallway, you know,” I tell him. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Well, I don’t fit in the cupboard anymore,” he mutters. “And I don’t believe you.”
Heaving a sigh, I retreat to the sanctuary of my own room and climb into bed, curling up on one side. I’m all mixed up, torn between elation over the progress Burleigh and I have made in only one night and discomfort over Wyn’s presence outside my door. No, not his presence—the reason for it. I used to look after him, and now things seem to be the other way around. I don’t like it. It makes me feel like a burden, and I’ve always hated to inconvenience anyone else.
And yet. There’s something in me that rests easier, knowing Wyn is nearby. For almost a year after we moved to the fens, I’d wake in the middle of the night gasping, overwhelmed by an urge to look for him though I knew he was the length of the country away. If being with Burleigh feels like I’m home again, being with Wyn feels like I’m whole once more. He must feel it, too, at least a little. Why else would he have come back?
I stare at the closed door for what seems like a long time, thinking about getting up to open it. But before I can, I fall into a dark and dreamless sleep.
11
I DID NOT EXPECT TO BE OUT IN THE LANE, BRISKLY WALKING away from Burleigh House after two days at home, and yet here I am. Nothing’s as I thought it would be. Not the House, with its endless, all-encompassing pain, not Wyn, and certainly not me. I expected some sort of instinct to take over and guide me once I got home, letting me know exactly what Burleigh needs. It hasn’t, and so I fall back on what I know—that Burleigh likes to be looked after in the ordinary way of houses. Paint and nails and plaster always cheer it, but they also cost money, and I haven’t got any. It’s not just Burleigh His Majesty owns—following Papa’s arrest, the Crown seized all his assets.
I need to earn, just like the rest of my odd little family. Jed’s already off to his farm labor. Mira’s at her washbasin. And when I left Burleigh, the sound of a saw was already ringing through halls, meaning Wyn was busy, too. I’m no use at House repairs like Wyn’s clearly turned out to be, but I can keep him in supplies.
Anything to bolster Burleigh’s flagging spirits.
Ripping a switch free from the hedgerow, I snap it at the inoffensive bushes bordering the lane. Songbirds burst from the hedge in an outcry of feathers and wing their way across the fields. Watching them go sets guilt twisting in my belly. I don’t know what a single one of them is called, while back on the fens, I could tell even a female reed bunting from a corn bunting on sight.
As I carry on down the lane toward the small village of Burleigh Halt, I look to the land with a Caretaker’s eye, and don’t like what I see. Suspiciously grey and stony leaves sprout in the hedgerows. Some of the sheep in the fields have a downcast way about them, their heads drooping and their sides rising and falling only with an effort. Half a dozen songbirds lie dead in the bottom of a ditch. Burleigh House is leaking magic and mortar into the countryside like gangrene, unable to hold back all of its festering power.
But I knew Burleigh was struggling before I came back. I doubt the king would ever have allowed me home otherwise. All I need is for my beleaguered House to hang on until I can find the deed. One day at a time, Burleigh my love. We’ll take this one day at a time.
It’s not just the House that’s ailing this morning, though. I’m cold in spite of the warm weather, my legs weak as water and occasional chills running through me. It’s the aftermath of the mortar, I know—Wyn may have managed to siphon some of it off, but he didn’t get it all—and I think I’d better be discreet in how often I ask the House to show me its memories, in case I strike a nerve.
At last I round a bend in the lane and arrive at the little village of Burleigh Halt. There isn’t much to it. Just a row of pretty stone houses lining the main street, a market square that’s jammed with carts and wagons on Saturday mornings, a single shop that in the way of village vendors sells just about everything, and the Red Shilling.
After a moment’s indecision, I walk through the tavern door.
Small windows make for a moody, dimly lit interior. Tables and booths litter the front room, and a Black woman with hair smoothed and pulled back in a tidy knot stands behind the counter, polishing glasses. My stomach’s gone flighty with nerves at my sudden decision to come in here, but I walk up and perch on a stool in front of her. She crooks an eyebrow at me.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I say. “I’ve only just arrived in town, and I’m looking for work.”
The woman shakes her head. “In that case, no, I can’t help. Try day labor, out on one of the bigger farms.”
“Thought you might say so, but it was worth asking.” I slide down off the stool. “Good day to you, ma’am.”
I’m nearly at the door when she calls me back. “Girl. You look like you’ve been on the fens, judging by your clothes. I’ve got a brother out fen way.”
“I lived outside Thiswick the last few years,” I answer carefully. “Did some fishing, cut some thatch. Whatever would make me a bit of coin. I’m not proud, and I work hard.”
I quell the urge to bite at a fingernail as I wait for her response.
“Oh, don’t string her along, Frey,” a strange voice says from a dim corner of the p
ublic room. I twist my head around and notice two figures I’d overlooked sitting in the shadows at a booth. There’s a young man, dressed like a gentleman and impeccably tidy, but it was his companion who spoke in a girl’s clear tones. She’s all in black from head to toe, with her back to me.
“You know you’re going to hire her,” the girl says without turning around. “If only for a chance to say you had George Sterling’s daughter in your employ.”
Frey, the innkeeper, sets her glass and polishing rag down.
“So you’re George’s girl come home.” There’s no surprise behind the words, and I expect she knew all along. When I nod, she gives me an appraising look.
“You willing to fetch and carry? Wash and dry? I’ll need you to be quick and sharp. The village lot think they’re a cut above and don’t like getting their hands dirty. There’s no place here for you if you feel the same.”
I step forward, eager to please. “I’ll do anything you’ll pay me for, and you won’t hear a word of complaint.”
She smiles and holds out a hand to shake. “Good girl. Your father would’ve liked that answer. I’m Frey, as her ladyship said.”
I take Frey’s proffered hand across the counter, and her grip is firm. “Vi. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise. I’ll need you for evenings, so your shift starts at three o’clock. That’ll be your start time, every day but Sunday. And I’ll want you to start today. Alright?”
I don’t hesitate. “Of course. Thank you, ma’am.”
Her smile broadens. “Not ma’am, just Frey. You can call that other one sitting over at the table ma’am. I’ve said all I need to, but I’m sure she’s not finished with you yet.”
“I am not a ma’am,” the girl in the booth says, clearly disgruntled. I crane my neck, trying to get a look at her face, but she stays well within the shadows. “You make me sound like some hideous dowager with five grown children. Nothing could be further from the truth, isn’t that so, Alfred?”
“Hm, what?” The young gentleman across the table from her glances up from the book propped in front of him and smiles. “Oh, of course. You’re a pearl among women. A shining star. A veritable fountain of youth. Absolutely not a ma’am.”
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