“Laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think, Alfie?” the girl says fondly. “Frey, can we use the private dining room, and trust you’ll see we’re not interrupted?”
In answer, Frey tilts her head toward a doorway near the strange couple’s table. I hesitate as Alfred gathers up his things and precedes us, a long-suffering stoop to his shoulders.
“Oh, come on,” the girl says as I continue to hang back. “Frey’s right here, and the kitchen staff are nearby. If I try to chloroform you, there are plenty of people about to hear you scream.”
“I don’t think that’s how chloroform works,” I answer dryly, but the girl doesn’t respond. She simply waits for me to step into the room before her. Overcome by my own curiosity, I finally give way. I can hear the rustle of her skirts as she gets up from the table and I fight the urge to glance over one shoulder. If she doesn’t want me to see who she is till we’re alone, I’ll wait for introductions.
The private dining room is done up far more expensively than the public room, with silver-grey damask wallpaper and a long, gleaming wood table. I’m so used to dropping off fish and clams at back doors that it seems exceedingly strange to have been in not one but two private rooms in the past month, although I hope this interlude will be less upsetting than the last one. Alfred’s already settled himself back in at the head of the table, book open before him once more. The girl shuts the door behind me, and I turn, finally getting a look at her.
She’s a good six inches shorter than I am, with a small round face. There’s a hint of gold to her skin, like sand on a sunny day, and her eyes are deep brown, nearly black. Her hair is a mass of loose black curls bundled up on top of her head, and when she moves her hands, silver bangles make music at her wrists. I’ve seen her once before, and I’d know her anywhere.
“Get out of my way,” I growl at Esperanza, Princess of Wales, heir to His Majesty’s throne, as I make for the door to leave.
“Violet, stop.” The princess stays steadfastly between me and the exit. I think wildly of knocking her down—surely she can’t put up much of a fight, tiny thing that she is. “I want to help you.”
“Oh, like your father helped mine into an early grave? Or like he just tried helping me into a forced marriage? No thank you. Move. Aside.”
“Please.” Esperanza clasps her hands together. “The king’s sending someone else to keep an eye on you and Burleigh. Someone much worse. I wanted to warn you—”
“No, I don’t think so, I can very plainly see he sent you, as you’re standing right in front of me. Good day.”
I try to edge past her and she glares, dark eyes blazing.
“What was your father, Violet Sterling?” Esperanza asks, and it’s not a question but a command. She emphasizes my last name and I can feel myself grow more defiant.
“England’s greatest Caretaker,” I answer proudly. Everyone knew it, before Papa’s arrest. Most people still know it now. How else did he and Burleigh manage to survive for seven years without a key? “No place ever prospered like the West Country while he looked after Burleigh. No one did their duty quite like him. The House came first, before king, before country, before his own life.”
Esperanza leans a little closer. “So we agree it was more than odd then, that your father, the model Caretaker, should risk everything, but first and foremost, Burleigh’s health and safety, on a chance at obtaining the House’s deed? He’s not the sort of man who’d do that for personal ambition, or the simple nobility of the goal. No, it must have been desperation instead.”
Esperanza reaches out and pats the chair next to her. “Vi, he knew the truth—that Burleigh is failing. Dying. Whatever you want to call it. It’s the only reason he was desperate enough to gamble on the House’s freedom—because Burleigh’s plight isn’t the result of the House arrest. It was already sickening before it was forced to kill your father.”
“I don’t trust you,” I tell Esperanza. She nods. “But I’m going to sit down.”
The princess takes a sealed and yellowed envelope out of her reticule and hands it to me. “I know you’ve just got home and we’ve only just met, and it’s an understatement to say you’re on bad terms with my father. This must be difficult to hear from me and even harder to believe, but I really do want to help. And I know you don’t trust me yet, but I think I know whose word you will trust.”
I take the envelope reluctantly and break open the seal. With a little chill, I recognize the untidy scrawl that wanders across two pages of parchment. It’s my father’s script—I’d know it anywhere, and the faintest whiff of tobacco and starch and Burleigh House itself still clings to the pages. I’m run through by a sudden and childish longing to be at home with Papa’s final words, sitting in the haven of my airing cupboard with Wyn as we used to when we were small. But Esperanza, Crown Princess of England, is watching me, so I smooth out the wrinkled pages and read.
Dear Violet,
You’re still just a child as I write this, and perhaps I’ve kept too much from you, because I hate to burden you with the responsibilities I’ve been given. In my own way, I’ve tried to prepare you as best I know how, to look after Burleigh House when I’m gone. But I would keep that task from you for as long as possible. It has been my joy and my privilege to serve our House, Vi, but never for a day has it been easy.
The truth is that the Great Houses of England are in decline, sickening beneath the bindings they’ve been placed under. As best I understand it, the binding they’ve been placed under prevents them from ever really ridding themselves of all their magic. A Caretaker helps, to be sure, but can channel only so much of a House’s power away. And as old magic lingers, it goes bad, tainting the rest of it, like poison in the blood.
Only the return of the deeds may restore the Houses’ health. I say may because it is no sure thing, and all my efforts on Burleigh’s behalf may be too little, too late. They call me a great Caretaker, but I am no greater than any other, and it took me far too long to see the truth, Violet. That in taking from the Great Houses and binding them to our purposes, we meddled with something we should not have, and perhaps signed their death warrant.
Should I fail to save Burleigh, it will someday fall to you to finish what I started. I know you love our House, Vi—I haven’t only kept myself apart from you because the business of a Caretaker occupies me so often. Part of my reasoning for keeping a distance between us was so that you’d learn with your heart as well as your mind to put Burleigh first. Perhaps this was unkind, even cruel, of me. I’ve done many things for our House I would not have, under any other circumstances. Many things I’m not proud of. And I think, my dear, that if you do set both your heart and mind upon it, you will not just be a great Caretaker. You will eclipse me in every way, and do the things I could not do, be the person I could not be.
Things are coming to a head, and soon I will either succeed or fail in everything I have set my hand to. Jed and Mira will look after you, should I fare badly. There are precious few other people you can rely on—Frey at the Red Shilling, if you can win her over. The Westons and Sterlings have worked alongside each other for centuries, and it’s a tie their family won’t throw over lightly. I’ve asked Bertie Weston, a colleague of mine, to take you in should you find yourself without a home. Queen Isabella is a friend, too, and one I’d trust with your life. Beyond that, look to yourself, Vi, and our House.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you. You’re my very heart and soul. But I am a Caretaker, and I pray I’ve taught you well what that means.
All my love,
Your father, George Sterling
PS Tell Wyn I’m forever grateful to him. Tell him it isn’t enough, but it’s all I have to offer.
When I glance up from the letter, having read through it twice, Esperanza and Alfred are both watching me.
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“My family name is Weston,” Alfred says.
I fix him with a narrow look. “Yes, the House showed
me a memory of someone called Bertie. Your father, was he? And the letter says your family was to take me in if anything happened to Papa. What went wrong?”
Alfred shakes his head apologetically. “Yes, Albert Weston was my father. But he died not long after George was placed under House arrest. Heart failure. My mother couldn’t bring herself to go through his things until several years after his death, and by then I was on the Continent. That letter only fell into my hands a month or two ago, along with instructions to give it to you if any trouble befell George and your House. I’d have found you and delivered it earlier if I’d known it existed.”
“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” I say, staring down at Papa’s handwriting.
“Let me get you a raspberry tart,” Esperanza offers. “It’ll make you feel less grim. Alfie, would you mind?”
Alfred disappears and returns in a moment with plates of finger sandwiches and little sausage rolls and fruit tarts, which he sets out while Esperanza watches approvingly. He stops at her place last, and she catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.
“Darling,” Esperanza says. “I know you never thought you’d hear me say this, but I want you to talk about Great Houses.”
Alfred gives her a dubious look. “Truly? What if I get carried away?”
“Well, I’ll have to cut you off. But I have faith in you. Even you, Alfred Weston, can be concise.”
I bite into a sausage roll, swallowing past a pained, empty feeling that’s opened up in my chest since reading my father’s words.
“Does he know a lot about the Great Houses?” I ask.
“He’s literally writing the book on the subject.” Esperanza carefully picks several blackberries off her fruit tart. “Vi, it’s the most tedious thing I’ve ever heard. He’s three volumes in and it’s supposed to be eight when he’s finished. I have him read it to me when I can’t sleep.”
“Yes, well, it’s a scholarly work, Espie, not a novel,” Alfred says dryly.
“That’s how we met each other.” The princess gives his hand a conciliatory pat. “While he was on the Continent, doing research among the ruins of the Great Houses that have failed there.”
I frown. “I’ve never heard of any Great Houses on the Continent that failed.”
“Unfortunately you have,” Alfred says. “You just didn’t know what you were hearing about at the time. Do you know where the first of Europe’s Great Houses was bound?”
I shake my head.
“In the Italian countryside. At the foothills of a mountain named Vesuvius. They called the House Arx Oriens and made it a shrine, with an oracle in place of a Caretaker. Oriens had been bound for nearly five hundred years by the time it failed, causing the mountain to erupt. But Italy has many bound Shrine Houses now, and very few people will speak of the House that once stood outside Pompeii.
“There were others like Arx Oriens. Casa de Descans, in Catalonia, which failed in 1428 and caused an earthquake. The failure of the Dutch Zeelicht Landhuis in 1570 was followed by a tidal wave. Great Houses die as they live—with immense power.”
My mind’s already racing through everything I know of Europe and England’s history.
“Things are different here, though,” I say. “Everywhere else Houses were bound one at a time, usually a century or more apart.”
“Exactly,” Espie says, slicing one of her leftover berries in half with a scowl. “Nowhere’s quite like England, where six Houses were bound in the span of a single year thanks to my ancestor William the Deedwinner. Five of those Houses still remain and are heading for failure due to their bindings, but Burleigh’s going fastest. It’s by far the oldest of the five, and the House arrest did so much additional damage, Burleigh must be dealt with first.”
I press my lips together and hold my tongue. I’m inclined to believe these two, but that doesn’t mean I’ve set aside all my suspicion. Let them share what they know and what they’re planning—I’ll keep my own scheming to myself.
“It would mean disaster on a national scale,” Alfred says quietly. “Yorkshire’s still a wasteland after an attempt to free Ripley Castle went badly and the House failed. Imagine that happening across the country. At this point, it’s a matter of either freeing the Houses, or burning each of them and their mortar as they begin to fail. Espie’s father favors the latter plan because it’s less of a risk to the countryside, and means he can keep hold of the remaining Houses till the bitter end. He doesn’t want to give up the control they allow him, you see.”
There’s a window nearby, in front of which a rhododendron blooms. Its crepe-like petals are luminous and unblighted, and all of this seems like a dark story meant to frighten wayward children.
“Don’t fret about England,” Esperanza says at last. “That isn’t why we came to you, Vi. The thing is, I’ve got contacts and spies and money, and I’m optimistic we’ll find the deeds, but . . .”
“But what?”
Esperanza looks down at her hands. “We want your help with unbinding Burleigh, obviously. No one knows the House better than you. But Burleigh’s bound to destroy anyone who tries to set it free. All the Great Houses are. My forebearers were nothing if not very thorough in ensuring their power was protected. You remember what happened to Marianne Ingilby when she tried to free the Sixth House. And then there’s the matter of getting to the heart of the House if you do find the deed. You know the old rhyme—blood for an ending, mortar for a start, unmake a binding at your House’s heart. According to Alfred, only a Caretaker can find a House’s heart. Burleigh doesn’t have a Caretaker, though.”
“Burleigh has me,” I answer staunchly. “I’m its Caretaker. It doesn’t want anyone else. And if Burleigh will let anybody into its secret heart, it’ll be me. So if you want the House unbound, I’m the one to do it.”
“Are you sure?” Esperanza asks. “It’s very dangerous, Vi.”
“Of course I’m sure,” I say without a moment’s hesitation. “But why are you doing this? The Houses are your birthright, and your future power. Why would you want to give that up?”
The princess’s dark eyes soften. “I spent half of my childhood at Hampton Court, the royal family’s Great House. You know what they’re like, Vi—I loved that place with everything in me. But the king, my father—he would use the magic to keep the House in check. Would let its magic build, and build, until Hampton was beside itself, and only then would he do his duty as Caretaker. He said”—her mouth twists—“that it was important for the Houses to know we rule them, and not the other way around.”
“Sounds like Uncle Edgar,” I mutter.
Esperanza shakes her head, curling a stray lock of hair around one finger absently. “My father likes to hold both the deeds and the crown over my head, saying he’ll disinherit me if I don’t do what he wishes. As for my birthright, I spent eight years in a Great House, and every day and every night I felt its sadness through the floors and the walls, until I could not find a way to be glad.”
I know the feeling. It is all too familiar, that burden of knowing your House is unhappy.
“I’m afraid, too,” Esperanza admits. “There have been monarchs before, who intended to unbind the Houses. After taking the throne, they never made good on their promises. Power is a seductive thing, Violet.”
“My father always said people don’t give it up lightly,” I reply.
Esperanza leans forward, and there’s sincerity in her dark eyes and small, round face. “That’s my fear. That while I feel for the Great Houses now, if once they were bound to me, I might refuse to give them up. So I want to see this done before I take the throne. And it starts with Burleigh, because Burleigh is running out of time. What do you say, then, Violet Sterling? Shall we join forces? Will you help us in this, or let us help you?”
Mira would be livid if she saw me gnawing indecisively at a fingernail in front of the princess of Wales. Perhaps I’m signing my death warrant by trusting Espie. But after all of Jed and Mira and Wyn’s reluctan
ce to see me seek out the deed, it’s heartening to find someone who will give me her absolute support.
“I don’t know . . . ,” I say, because while I have every intention of unbinding Burleigh, I’m still not sure of this princess.
“Espie,” Alfred says quietly. “Tell her about your mother.”
The corners of Esperanza’s mouth turn in, and all the light leaves her eyes. “I don’t like to talk about Mama, you know that, Alfred.”
“I do. But you’re sitting next to the one person in England who’ll understand about her. Who knows what you’re living with.”
Esperanza turns to me, and her face is drawn and unhappy. “The thing is, do you know why my father, the king, sent my mother back to Spain, Vi?”
I frown. “I thought they didn’t get on. It was a political match, and didn’t go well, so she went home.”
The princess shakes her head. “No. Papa sent my mother away because . . . she’s dying. She couldn’t bear to watch Hampton Court suffer, and since my father held the key and would not do his duty as a Caretaker, she began to do it for him. Or rather, she did it for the House. Mama worked House magic ten, perhaps twelve times. She would have worked more if my father hadn’t sent her away. But she’s been sickening ever since she left England, day by day, year by year. It is slow and ugly and painful. I’m so afraid to open every letter that comes from Spain, because I know it might bring the news that she’s finally gone.”
Esperanza falls silent. She takes the handkerchief Alfred offers her, but there are no tears swimming in her dark eyes.
I know why. You can’t cry when you’re waiting, when you’re caught moving inevitably toward heartbreak. You can only watch it grow closer and steel yourself against the pain to come.
“How did you bear it?” Esperanza asks finally, and her voice is little more than a whisper. “How did you manage, Violet, while you were on the fens? Because sometimes I feel as if everything’s frozen around me, and other times as if each day’s gone in the blink of an eye.”
A Treason of Thorns Page 11