I reclaim the flask and frown. “Don’t change the subject. I’m serious.”
Wyn looks out across the grounds, and the shadowy smudge of the back woods. His eyes are very far away—not vacant, as when he works House magic, but distant, seeing something I can’t.
“I’ll promise you this,” he says. “I won’t touch Burleigh’s magic unless it’s losing control and channeling mortar into you. But I won’t promise more than that, don’t ask me to.”
“I can—” I begin, and he raises a hand, cutting me off.
“Do you have to make me say it, Vi?” Frustration laces Wyn’s words. “It would ruin me to watch another Sterling die for this House. To watch you die. I need you to let me help.”
I don’t want to agree. I want to forbid him to ever meddle with Burleigh’s magic again, because I’ve felt it inside me and seen what it did to my father. I hate the idea of mortar touching Wyn, much as I love Burleigh and would do anything in my power to save it.
The House itself is oddly quiet in the wake of remembering Papa’s last night and funneling magic into Wyn. A faint breeze tangles in my hair. Little marsh lights flicker between the trees in the forest. That’s all, though—no vines, no petals, no wind in the chimney to whisper Burleigh’s unspoken words.
Poor voiceless House. What am I for in this life, if not to speak on your behalf?
“I’m sorry,” I tell Wyn, though I feel caught between him and Burleigh. “And I can live with that, if you can. But I wish you’d be more straightforward with me. I wish you’d tell me the truth about all this.”
“I want to,” Wyn says. “And I will. I swear, Violet, I just—have to find the right words.”
“Where do you go when you work the magic? Because it’s like you’ve left yourself behind. Am I allowed to ask that?”
Wyn turns away from the horizon and gives me a puzzled look.
“I don’t know. It’s like walking down a corridor that’s endlessly long. It has no start and no end, and all the doors are shut. But when I open them, there’s nothing behind them.”
“Nothing? You mean the rooms are empty?”
“No.” A worried crease forms between his eyebrows as he tries to explain. “There are no rooms. I open the doors and there’s nothing. No darkness, no floors, no ceilings, no walls. Just—nothing. I don’t know, I’m not explaining very well, am I?”
A shiver runs through me, from the crown of my head to the base of my spine. “No, but it sounds terrifying.”
“Maybe it was at first, but I’m used to it now.”
“Wyn?” I say.
“Violet?”
I swallow. The words I’m about to speak rest dry and sharp-edged in my throat. “I think you should go away after all. Away from Burleigh House, I mean. It isn’t safe here.”
“Are you going?”
I bite anxiously at one already mangled fingernail. “You know I can’t.”
“Then I can’t, either. I thought I could, but I can’t.”
The sky out beyond the back woods is flushing pink behind the trees and Wyn shuts his eyes.
“What did you do while you were on the fens, Vi?” he asks, and there’s something a little desperate in his voice. “Tell me about it.”
“I went fishing every day,” I say with a smile. “Not with a pole like we used in the stream, but with nets and spears. I dug for clams and cut peat and thatch with Jed. I salted fish with Mira and learned to make ginger biscuits when it stormed. Or at least, she tried to teach me to make ginger biscuits, but I was never very good at it.”
Wyn laughs. “She tried to teach me to make ginger biscuits before all of you left, but I wasn’t any good at it, either.”
“What did you do while I was gone?” I ask. “Not the bad things, just the ordinary ones.”
“Fixed up the House. Read some books. Grew parsnips,” Wyn says. “We were alright the first few years—the House kept the gardens going for us, but the last couple they needed a great deal of coaxing. Almost everything failed except the parsnips.”
“Oh dear,” I say. “You never really liked parsnips.”
Wyn opens his eyes and looks at me wryly. “I hate them now.”
I bite my lip in an attempt to keep a straight face, but can’t quite manage it.
“It’s alright,” Wyn says. “It is a bit funny. Of all the things, it had to be parsnips.”
The first few rays of sunlight spill over the trees and across Wyn’s face. For a moment I’m breathless, because I know him. I know that half-bashful, quietly pleased expression. Without thinking, I reach out and put a finger to his chin, just as I would have done when we were children.
“Hello,” I say. “I recognize you.”
Burleigh rumbles ominously beneath us, and at once, Wyn’s face grows severe and closed off again.
“I’ve got work to do downstairs,” he mutters, and with a clatter of tiles, disappears back into the House.
13
“AND THEN I SAYS TO HIM I SAYS, WHERE’LL I FIND A RAM to cover the flock at this time of year?”
I will admit, I’m not listening to a word Old John Howard has to say as I hurry back and forth behind the counter at the Shilling, pulling pints and setting them down before uncommonly thirsty county folk. To begin with, there’s the matter of my head, which is spinning after missing a night of sleep out on the roof with Wyn. And—well, that’s the end of it. I’m worn to tatters, and everything around me is a blur.
“George Sterling’s girl! Another round over here!”
Heaving a sigh, I grab a tray and fill it with mugs, edging my way across the room to a table where half a dozen tenant farmers are playing at dice. Esperanza and Alfred are in a booth up against the wall, sitting side by side rather than opposite one another, and poring over stacks of old documents. I don’t know how they can possibly think with all the noise down here, but neither of them seems to mind.
The thought of Wyn and his strange way of working House magic is still plaguing me, like the beginnings of a headache I’m pushing through but can’t quite shake, so I stop at Alfred and Espie’s table for a moment.
“Any progress?” I ask.
Alfred squints up at me. “Hm. Not particularly.”
Esperanza drops her chin onto one hand and gives me a pleading look. “Violet, I’m bored. This is so dull. Save me. I’m worlds better at digging up information by flirting at parties.”
“Just be a little more methodical,” Alfred suggests. “When you find references to—”
“No.” Esperanza holds a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “No, Alfred. We’re not all librarians at heart.”
“You can wait tables if you’re really that bored,” I tell Espie. “We could certainly use the help.”
She brightens considerably at the suggestion until Alfred puts a warning hand on her sleeve. “Espie. Darling. You’re the princess of Wales. If you start serving ale in a backwater inn, it’ll be front page news across England by the day after tomorrow and then your father will come down to lecture you. Is that really what you want?”
Esperanza slumps, defeated. “No, you’re right. Sorry, Vi.”
“It’s fine. But I wanted to ask Alfred something.”
Alfred takes off his spectacles and tucks them into his breast pocket, looking up at me. “I’m entirely at your disposal.”
“Another pint, George Sterling’s girl!” someone shouts from the counter. I pointedly ignore them.
“Have you ever heard of a person working House magic without a key, but it doesn’t cause them any harm? Or perhaps it does but it starts with their mind rather than their body?” I ask.
Espie sits bolt upright. “Violet Sterling, are you doing things at Burleigh House that you shouldn’t? I swear, if you’re working House magic, I’ll strangle you with my best jet beads; you know how dangerous that is.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Or at least, not on purpose. A little by accident, but that’s all.”
“It doesn’t rin
g any bells, but I’ll take a look,” Alfred promises.
I turn aside to head back to the counter but the door swings open and a party of travelers strides in. There’s a gentleman and two liveried menservants, and one of the servants goes at once to the counter to have a private word with Frey. In the heat of the common room, the gentleman sheds his long riding coat and holds it out to me.
“Here, tavern girl. Take this for me and see it’s kept somewhere safe.”
He looks familiar. There’s something niggling at the back of my mind, half memory, half warning. And then I glance at Alfred and Espie.
Alfred’s gone, vanished like smoke on a windy day. I catch sight of him at the edge of my vision, suddenly tucked in among the dice-playing farmers at a nearby table. Esperanza, meanwhile, is pale beneath the golden hue of her skin, a fixed smile on her face.
The gentleman walks over to her at once, and Espie holds out a hand.
“Lord Falmouth,” she says as he kisses her offered fingertips. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you till next week. Papa said you were in Bournemouth, or somewhere, and that you couldn’t possibly be here till June to keep an eye on things.”
“I left early,” Falmouth says, his voice low and gravelly as he slides into the booth across from Espie. I dislike him at once. It’s Falmouth who blew a hole in Burleigh’s wall, Falmouth who spoke so dismissively of Wyn in Burleigh’s memory. What’s more, he’s looking at Esperanza as if she’s a frosted cake and he hasn’t eaten since morning.
I step closer to the table and look pointedly at the princess, letting my voice go decidedly West Country. “Is there anything I can get for you, Miss? Another cup of tea, perhaps?”
A muzzle for the wolf who just walked in?
Espie gathers up the papers she and Alfred were looking over and hands them to me. “Just take those upstairs, won’t you?”
I drop a curtsy for good measure. “If you need anything, Miss, I’ll be over at the counter. Just give a shout.”
“I meant it when I said be careful with the coat,” Falmouth warns me. “It had better make it up to my room without incident or I’ll take its worth out of you.”
“Are we having a problem over here? I’m the proprietress of the Shilling, and if there’s trouble, I’m the one who ought to know about it,” Frey says smoothly, appearing out of the ether. She gives Falmouth a thin smile—the sort I already know she reserves for patrons who are bad news.
“None at all,” Falmouth says. “I was just asking your serving girl to take extra care with my things.”
“Go on then.” Frey gives me a look and jerks her head toward the stairs. “I’ll take care of these gentlefolk tonight.”
Falmouth’s footmen are already arranging things in one of the private rooms upstairs. They start like frightened rabbits when I enter the room.
“It’s not him, it’s just me,” I say.
One of them takes the coat and I carry on to Alfred and Esperanza’s room. Alfred’s abandoned the dice players and is inside already, looking peaked and sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
“What the hell is going on?” I ask. “Who’s Falmouth to Esperanza? Who are you to Esperanza, for that matter? Why did you run off like that, and what are you doing up here?”
“I’m nobly hiding,” Alfred says. “Falmouth is Espie’s fiancé. They’ve been engaged for years, ever since her fifteenth birthday. As for what I am, I think she’d better tell you that herself. I’ll take those papers, though.”
I hand them over and head back downstairs, rolling my eyes as I go. Nobility and their entanglements. It’s like a Gothic novel in the West Country these days, between Burleigh and the princess and her assorted lovers.
At least I’m awake now.
Frey positively hovers over Esperanza and Falmouth for the rest of the evening, leaving me to man the counter and listen to John Howard’s litany of wrongs done unto him. It’s past midnight by the time Falmouth retreats to the private gaming room and Espie goes slowly up the stairs.
“Can I take five minutes?” I ask Frey as she joins me.
She eyes the common room, which is starting to empty out. “Yes, but be quick about it. I’ve got tables for you to clear up.”
I slip up the stairs in Esperanza’s wake and knock softly at her door.
“Come in,” she says, her voice muffled.
Espie’s lying on her side on the bed, her head on Alfred’s lap, but when I shut the door behind me, she sits up and wipes at her eyes with the back of one hand.
“Hello, Violet.”
“Should I go?” I ask. “I just wanted to make sure you’re alright, not to intrude.”
“No, it’s fine. And thank you.”
“So,” I begin, a little awkwardly. “You’re engaged to Lord Falmouth?”
Esperanza rolls her eyes. “I am, in a manner of speaking.”
“Your father seems to like forcing girls into unwanted marriages,” I say. “Are we the only ones he’s tried it with, or does he do it often?”
This time, Esperanza pulls a face. “He’s always matchmaking. He likes controlling people—we’re just game pieces to him.”
“You’ll find a way out of it, though, won’t you?” I ask, shifting my weight anxiously from one foot to the other. “That Falmouth, he’s . . .”
“An absolute brute,” Esperanza says. “The fact that he’s here to keep an eye on things will be nothing but trouble for you and Burleigh House, Vi. I’m going to see if I can convince him that Burleigh Halt’s too much of a backwater for him to stay more than a night. At least if he lodges in Taunton, you’ll have a little space. And God forbid he find out anything about Alfred. That conversation’s meant to happen in public, in front of my father, not out here with no witnesses, or it’ll be pistols at dawn and widow’s weeds for me.”
I open my mouth and shut it. “I’m sorry, did you say widow’s weeds?”
“I did.” Esperanza beams. “Alfie’s my trump card. We were married in secret last year at Spanish court, in front of several unassailably credible witnesses. At first it was just convenience for me—Alfie said he’d do it, and that I could divorce him once I’m queen if I liked. But then I started to like him. He’s just so decent, you know? Now I quite worship the ground he walks on.”
Esperanza kisses the tip of Alfred’s nose, and he goes bright red, rather flustered by his flamboyant, affectionate bride.
“I adored her from the start, of course,” Alfred admits. “But we both decided it would be best to keep this quiet and let Falmouth continue to believe she’ll marry him. No one’s more in the king’s confidence, and Espie hopes to get information out of him, about the deeds.”
Looking at the two of them sitting tucked together on the bed, I decide all at once that it’s time to lay my suspicions to rest.
“So you’re working on Falmouth, and have contacts at court, and Alfred’s looking into the history of the Houses to see if he can find anything useful there?” I ask.
“Exactly so. Pass me that box of chocolate creams?” Esperanza points to a gold foil box on the chifforobe. I hand it to her and she pops one into her mouth.
“I can help,” I say. Time for some honesty. “My father knew where Burleigh’s deed was, and I think the House still knows. I can’t ask Burleigh outright, though—the binding would wreak havoc on it if I did. So I’m using Papa’s ledger as a guide, to watch old memories that might point us in the right direction.”
“Oh, well done, you.” Esperanza holds the chocolate box out to me. “Have one, you quite deserve it.”
“No, I can’t,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’ve stayed far too long already, Frey’s waiting for me.”
But I stop at the door and turn. “Espie? Thank you for being kind to Wyn, when you were at the House after the arrest ended. The House showed me.”
She’s got her head on Alfred’s shoulder, and smiles at me. “Of course, darling. I can’t abide to see a suffering creature, and
that boy certainly suffered. But he’s got a great deal of faith in you.”
“More than I deserve, I think.”
Esperanza’s smile broadens. “Doubtful.”
The last I see of them as I shut the door is Esperanza popping a chocolate cream into Alfred’s mouth as he tries to carry on with his reading, a look of bemused resignation on his face.
14
I DREAM OF ENGLAND’S INFAMOUS SIXTH HOUSE. OR rather, of the night Mama told me about the Sixth House for the very first time.
In sleep, my memories take on the same watery cast as Burleigh’s. I lie tucked up in bed, not Little Vi but my own self, tall and leggy and nearly grown. Mama smooths the hair back from my forehead and I look past her, to the airing cupboard door. It’s been left ajar. Wyn must be listening from his secret retreat.
“Tell me a story,” I beg Mama, and though my body may be the one I’ve grown into, my voice is still a child’s. “Papa always tells me a story if he’s at home. Where did he go this time?”
“A castle by the sea,” Mama says. She puts a cup of honeyed milk in my hands and I sip at it. “Shall I tell you a story about a castle?”
“Yes, please,” I answer.
“Once upon a time, there was a Great House called Ripley Castle.”
Mama’s voice sounds very far away. Burleigh’s evening rain begins as she speaks, drumming against the roof, running down the windows.
“Is this a made-up story, Mama?” I ask. “There are only five Houses. Burleigh, Hampton Court, the Tower of London, Salisbury Cathedral, and Plas Newydd, though they’ve sometimes changed their shapes and their names. You see, I’ve been studying.”
“You’re very clever,” my mother says. “But once there were six Houses, and they called Ripley Castle the Sixth House. Ripley—”
“What happened to it?” I interrupt.
Mama wrinkles her nose at me. “I’m getting to that, if you’ll just listen.”
“Sorry.” I sink further into bed and pull the covers up to my shoulders. “I’ll be quiet.”
A Treason of Thorns Page 13