A Treason of Thorns

by Laura E. Weymouth

  “May I?” Frey asks.

  “Oh, go ahead,” I mutter. “Since you knew anyway.”

  She pushes my sleeve up and takes in a quick breath at the sight of yet more mortar veining my arm to the elbow. “Violet, you didn’t.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid I did. Burleigh’s been getting worse and worse, and Longhill Farm’s borne the brunt of it. I couldn’t just let my House ruin the Worthings like that. They’ve been in the county forever. But how did you know I’ve worked House magic for them?”

  Frey sits down at her desk, which nearly fills the room, and gestures to the one other piece of furniture, a small wooden chair. “Your father started channeling mortar without the protection of a key before his arrest began, during the last year he had his freedom. He said he could shift more of Burleigh’s power that way, get more of the magic that had gone bad out of its system. I saw the signs on him often enough.”

  It doesn’t surprise me. Burleigh was everything to Papa. He must have been wild over its distress, though he never let it show.

  “Papa mentioned you in a letter he left me,” I say. “Said you were someone I could trust. Were you very well acquainted?”

  Frey smiles. “That’s one way of putting it. We worked together, trying to find the deeds. I’d ask leading questions of patrons in their cups, whenever we had any nobility and their help passing through, and then give useful information to your father. I do the same now, for your friends out front.”

  Frey pauses for a moment before speaking again. “Then awhile after your mother left, your father and I didn’t just work together anymore.”

  “Oh. Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry, Frey. I never stop to think that I’m not the only one who lost him.”

  “He was like the sun, your father,” Frey says. “When he was in a room, it felt warmer. There’s not a soul in Burleigh Halt that didn’t grieve when he died, Violet Sterling, and don’t you forget that. He was everything a Caretaker ought to be. But I’ll tell you something—now he’s gone, everyone who lives on your House’s doorstep is just hoping to get through Burleigh’s end in one piece. I know the countryside does better with Burleigh to quicken it, but remember the Sixth House. It’s a terrible risk you’re taking, trying to set that place free.”

  “I know.” I twist one of Mama’s gloves in my mortar-marred hands. “But what else can I do, Frey? I’m a Sterling. This is everything I’ve been born and bred for.”

  “You can break the mold,” Frey says firmly. “Walk away. Let nature and the king run their course. And then, when the dust has settled and your heart’s mended, I’d be happy to have my serving girl back. Maybe make you a partner someday.”

  It’s a very generous offer. But the mere thought of living on magicless land, so close to what was once my beloved House, works in me worse than mortar.

  “I’ll think on it,” I say. “And I don’t take the well-being of the West Country lightly, I promise you that.”

  “You can choose your own fate, Violet,” Frey tells me. “Your own priorities. Burleigh doesn’t have to be your beginning and end.”

  But I’ve never imagined a world like that. I’ve never believed I could.

  Burleigh’s ghosts haunt me. They whisper and murmur in the corners of my room at all hours. I toss and turn at night, and whenever I open my eyes, all I can see in the dark is glowing figures, wavering in the moonlight. The House feels tense and frustrated, as if it knows its own end is drawing nearer. I roll over in bed and static sparks snap from the sheets.

  Another week has gone by, without any new information about Burleigh’s deed. In less than a month, His Majesty will descend with torches, to burn my House and send its magic up in smoke.

  I’ve begun to steel myself for the inevitable.

  For a binding. For a death.

  And I wonder, sitting up in bed and watching Burleigh’s memories play out around me, if it will remember me once my body has brought it to new land. Will my ghost haunt the halls of Burleigh House reborn? Or will I be forgotten once my sacrifice is made?

  Panic rises in my throat at the thought. I push away the covers and pad into the hall, crouching at Wyn’s side.

  “Psst,” I whisper to him. “Wyn. Wake up.”

  He rolls over and sleeps on.

  “Wyn.” I reach out and nudge him. He’s warm with sleep and the corridor is far quieter than my room. Briefly, I’m tempted to slide under the blanket next to him. I sincerely doubt I’d drop off with Wyn so close, though. Of late, there’s not just tension and sparks between Burleigh and me.

  At last, Wyn stirs.

  “Vi?” His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat, still barely awake as he squints up at me. “Is something wrong?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Oh.” Wyn’s eyes drift shut again. “Well, try counting sheep.”

  “My room’s full of ghosts. They’re too loud. I can’t hear myself counting.”

  Wyn shifts himself closer to the wall and folds the blanket back without opening his eyes. “Here. Now go to sleep.”

  Oh dear.

  I slip carefully under the blanket, taking great pains not to touch him. Then I lie flat on my back and stare straight up at the ceiling. Mercy, it’s not particularly comfortable on this floor. He’s a bit of a glutton for punishment, Wyn is.

  I don’t allow myself to turn onto one side until I’m certain he must have dozed back off. But when I finally do turn over, I let out a startled yelp, because Wyn’s awake and staring right at me.

  “Blood and mortar, Wyn, what are you doing?”

  “I’ve remembered something,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You used to sleep through anything. There was that winter I fell down your bedroom chimney, looking for Father Christmas—you never even woke up.”

  “Not one of your best ideas, that.” I shake my head.

  “Why are you really awake, Vi? What’s the matter?”

  We’re only inches from each other. It’s too warm and too close and I think I might stifle. I throw off the blanket and sit up. But Wyn follows suit, and though I’m less warm now, we’re side by side and I’m acutely aware of his arm pressed against mine.

  I put a finger to my mouth to gnaw at a nail, but they’ve all been bitten down to the bloody quick.

  “That bit of verse I found, in your shepherd’s hut in the back woods—you know what it is.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement.

  Wyn rests the back of his head against the wall. “Of course I do. And you’ve found out, haven’t you?”

  “Yes. Wyn, I don’t know what else to do. I’m running out of time to find the deed—in a few days, even if I can sort out where it is, it’ll be too late. I wouldn’t be able to get to it and back again before the king arrives. I think . . . I think I have to bind myself to Burleigh House.”

  It sits like a cold weight in my gut, the knowledge that I will die for Burleigh. If only I could save the House any other way.

  Wyn reaches out and takes my hand. He laces his fingers through mine and a little thrill runs through me.

  “Vi?” Wyn asks. “What did your father love most in this world?”

  “Burleigh,” I answer without hesitation. “And he always put the House first.”

  “Did he?” Wyn lifts our joined hands. The mortar has faded from under my skin and the bruises have gone from my wrists, leaving only the faint pink ring that circles my left arm still visible. “Where did this come from?”

  “I was born with it,” I say. “You know that, though.”

  He winces. “Violet, I haven’t always been honest with you. But I’m going tell you the truth now, about everything. About how I came to be at Burleigh House, and about why I stayed behind with your father, and about some other things besides.”

  My breath catches. I’ve been waiting for him to tell me the truth, but now it’s come, I’m not sure I want to hear what Wyn’s going to say.

  “The first thing you should know is this,” he tells me. “That’s not a mar
k you were born with. It’s a scar. You got it a week before I came to the House, and every night for a year, I listened to your father tell you a story, about how you’d been born with it. At the beginning you laughed, and by the end, you believed him. It’s easy to forget things when you’re only six years old, but I remember, Violet. I remember.”

  I don’t understand why Wyn would say such a thing, and I pull my hand away from his. “What are you talking about? My father wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Wyn gives me a pained look. “You’re not going to like any of this, Vi. Maybe I should just stop. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”

  But I have one unimpeachable witness to everything that’s gone on within these walls, who will show me the truth of any matter.

  “Burleigh,” I say, rubbing a finger against the mark on my wrist. “Show me the day I got this.”

  The corridor wavers with an overlay of memory—the image of my own bedroom. A little ghost springs to life on the braided rug nearby—Violet Helena Sterling, age five, playing with her dolls and their house. It’s a replica of Burleigh Papa had made for me, though a year after Wyn joined us, Mama had the toy house taken away. You’ve outgrown it, Vi, she said, even though I still played with it every morning before she took it from me.

  Little Vi plays on her own for a minute, and then fixes her eyes on the armchair behind me. I turn, and find my father’s ghost has joined us as well, sitting by the hearth with a stack of correspondence.

  “Papa?” Little Vi asks. “Will you play with me?”

  “Not just yet,” he answers, without looking up from his letters. “You know I only promised to sit up here with you so long as you didn’t interrupt my work.”

  Little Violet sighs and turns back to her dolls, but her disappointment quickly turns to delight. Because all around the dollhouse, Burleigh has laid out a garden, just like our own grounds. There are miniature roses growing from the floorboards outside the conservatory, little grasses and wildflowers beyond them, and even a row of seedling trees to represent the back woods.

  “Burleigh,” I watch myself whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but I love you the most. I’d do anything for you, you know? Anything.”

  A green vine, marked with patches of grey mortar, snakes up from the floor and twines itself around Little Vi’s wrist. She smiles, then winces and goes very still as thorns spring out from the vine. Blood beads onto my child-self’s skin like a bracelet, but it isn’t crimson, it’s gone pink, mingling with the mortar in the vine and on its thorns.

  Papa glances up, and then he’s out of the chair and kneeling at Little Violet’s side, tearing the vine from her wrist. Tears pool in her eyes.

  “You’re hurting,” she says reproachfully. “Stop it, Papa.”

  I watch as my father takes my chin in his hand and his eyes rove over my face.

  “What have you done, Burleigh?” he says.

  “Burleigh hasn’t done anything wrong,” Little Vi answers irritably. “It’s sorry, and didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Papa wraps a handkerchief around my bleeding wrist, his gaze never leaving me. “What do you mean, Burleigh’s sorry? That’s very specific, Vi.”

  Little Vi shrugs and turns back to her dolls as soon as he lets her go. “I mean it’s sorry you’re angry, but thinks you shouldn’t be. Don’t you feel it, Papa?”

  He shuts his eyes and the ghosts around me waver and rearrange.

  In this new vision of Burleigh House, Little Vi’s tucked up in bed, and it must be later on the same day, for the handkerchief still binds her wrist. Mama and Papa stand at her bedside and are in the middle of speaking in strained tones as the girl I was sleeps peacefully.

  “I wanted you to know, Eloise,” Papa says. “I want to be honest with you. I didn’t expect it of Burleigh, but I’m going to take care of everything, and it won’t matter, I promise. It won’t ever come to anything, because I’m going to sort out the House, and it will never have need of Violet in that way.”

  Mama’s face is a mask of shock and horror. “George, there is nothing you can tell me that will make things better. This House is a danger to Violet. It marked her for death. Perhaps you can live with that, but I can’t.”

  Papa grows defensive. “It doesn’t matter so long as she’s not working House magic. And Burleigh only marked her because I don’t think anyone’s ever loved a Great House the way Vi does. She’s willing. She’d give the breath out of her lungs for this place. The Houses don’t understand about age or childhood, anyway—Burleigh’s been here for thousands of years.”

  There’s venom in Mama’s voice. “That doesn’t change the fact that Violet is five years old. She still thinks fairies live under the rosebushes. Of course she loves her magic House. But when she gets older, she’ll come to realize the devil is in it. Fix this, George Sterling. Make it. Right.”

  “I can’t.” Papa spreads his hands helplessly. “There’s nothing I can do. I can only try to ensure that Burleigh never needs her.”

  Mama turns on her heel.

  “You’re a smart man. A brilliant Caretaker, they say. So figure something else out,” she hisses over one shoulder as she leaves the room.

  The memory fades, leaving Wyn and me sitting side by side once more in the dim hallway. A little vine springs up at my side and twines around my wrist, brushing velvet petals against the place where thorns bit at me. I swallow, and tamp down an urge to pull away from Burleigh’s touch.

  “The House bound you to itself when you were five years old, Violet,” Wyn says softly. “Burleigh’s always loved you best, I’m only sorry that this is what it led to.”

  I sit in silence, trying not to think how the vine resting soft against my wrist suddenly feels like a shackle.

  I love Burleigh. Burleigh loves me. I would choose Burleigh. Burleigh chose me.

  Then why does this still seem so much like betrayal?

  As always, I force my hurt feelings down inside. It doesn’t matter. I have a job to do, and was intent on this path anyway. Burleigh House has just made my life easier. All that remains now is to open myself to its magic. To let it overtake me.

  To become the last Caretaker, who saves her beloved House.

  “I’m glad you told me,” I say to Wyn, though the words sound forced. “I would have chosen Burleigh anyway, so at least the House and I are in accord.”

  “No, Violet. That’s not all of it,” he says.

  21

  FEAR GNAWS AT MY INSIDES AS WYN LOOKS UP AT THE ceiling.

  “Burleigh,” he says. “Show us the day I came here.”

  Somewhere within the walls, timbers groan.

  “Burleigh,” Wyn presses. And darkness falls.

  A phantom image of the front drive appears around us, on a fresh afternoon in early spring. I know this day at once, because there I am, with a bandage around my left wrist. I stand waiting for Papa in my braids and my pinafore, bouncing up and down in place. He left for Taunton before dawn on an errand, which he said was partly for the House and partly for me. I remember my excitement over that—most of his trips were strictly on Burleigh’s behalf. At last the gate swings open and Papa’s horse appears on the drive. I bolt toward him, only to freeze in place.

  Because there’s a boy with my father, sitting in front of him and looking absurdly small and timid. He’s pale and hunched, and I don’t know what’s filthier—the boy himself or his clothes.

  “Papa,” I call to my father as soon as he’s within earshot. I’m so brazen—so certain of myself and my place. “Who’s that with you? He looks a frightful mess.”

  Papa reins in his horse and dismounts, then helps the strange boy down. The boy stands in the shadow of my father’s quiet gelding and trembles, like a frightened dog. I give him a dubious look. Never a compassionate child at best, I funnel what empathy I do possess toward Burleigh House, leaving little behind for others.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I ask flatly.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him, Vi,” Pa
pa says. “He’s from the foundling home in Taunton. Was left there three years ago. But they’re at their wits’ end with him, because he keeps running away, and then a well-meaning someone or other finds him and brings him back.”

  I stare daggers at the boy. This is my House. There’s little enough of Mama and Papa to go around, and Burleigh especially belongs to me. I will brook no rival in its affections.

  “Why’s he here?”

  “To be company for you,” Papa answers, taking his riding gloves off, one after the other. “You know your mother always says you shouldn’t be alone so much. Well, here’s a friend. And he needed a home anyhow. It should work out well for everyone.”

  I watch as Little Vi steps forward, not even bothering to hide the doubt that etches itself across her face. I can still remember that visceral sense of suspicion and mistrust the first time I saw Wyn. How quickly things changed between us, though.

  “Boy,” Little Vi asks Wyn. “Do you speak?”

  He nods.

  “Are you going to speak?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Why not?”

  Wyn shrugs.

  “Are you afraid?”

  Another nod.

  Little Vi frowns at him for several moments.

  “Why don’t you take it upon yourself to look after him?” Papa says at last. “Consider it practice, for looking after Burleigh someday.”

  The girl I was brightens. How well Papa knew me—if I thought something would benefit the House, I always gave it my very best.

  “What do you think, Burleigh?” Little Vi asks the air around us. “Is Papa’s idea a good one?”

  A thunderclap sounds directly overhead, though it’s a clear day. Wyn’s eyes go wide as saucers.

  “Do you like that?” Little Vi says, solicitous now she’s been assured Wyn’s presence is in the House’s best interest. “That’s just Burleigh. It can do lots more. I’ll show you.”

  She reaches out a hand, but when Wyn flinches, draws back. “Don’t you want to be touched? I won’t, then. Not unless it’s alright.”