A Treason of Thorns

by Laura E. Weymouth

  Wyn gets to his feet, casting an uncertain glance at the forest’s edge. “But the House—”

  “But the House,” Papa mimics. “Do you trust me, or not?”

  Looking down, Wyn mumbles something.

  “What? Speak up!” my father snaps.

  When Wyn looks up, there’s defiance in his eyes. “I said I trust the man you were.”

  “Well, there it is, then.” Papa wipes mortar from his face with one sleeve. “You’ll just have to stay here and rot, because you wouldn’t believe what I had to say. The House will likely kill us both, you know, when it can’t take any more. You feel it, don’t you, boy? Its suffering, creeping up from the earth. I know you do—I can see it on your face every morning and every night. Before long, it’s going to snap, and that will be the end of you and me.”

  Wyn takes a step toward the wood’s edge, and then another.

  “Go on,” Papa jeers. “Show some spine, for once in your life.”

  I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, trying to hold in how badly it hurts, seeing my father so. Hearing him hurt Wyn.

  Wyn takes a breath and strides forward, but at the tree line, he comes up short and shakes his head, as if to clear it, or to banish a ringing in his ears. He stands in place for a moment, then takes a few steps back and does the same thing.

  “It’s no good,” he says. “I can’t . . . I can’t make myself go any farther.”

  Behind him, Papa throws his head back and laughs, a bitter, unwholesome sound. “What, did you think I haven’t tried leaving before? Because a good Caretaker always puts his House first? I would have left a thousand times over in the last year.” He wipes mortar from his face once more.

  Wyn walks back, putting twenty or thirty paces between himself and the forest’s edge. Then he hurtles across the leaf mold, running for all he’s worth.

  A thunderclap sounds, directly overhead, and Wyn is thrown back by the power of the House. My father grins, and moves to crouch at his side once more. Wyn blinks, dazed by the fall.

  “I’ll tell you a secret,” Papa says. He puts a hand on Wyn’s chest, but it’s not to help or reassure, it’s to hold him down. “The only thing keeping us here is each other. If you kill me, you can walk away. If you let the House take you, I can. Which would you rather be, boy? A murderer or a martyr?”

  Wyn turns his head aside to avoid my father’s gaze, and although I know it’s only memory, it’s as if our eyes are locked on one another. The despair I see in him is all-consuming, and silent tears track down my face.

  Papa’s hand creeps up to Wyn’s throat. His fingers rest gently, curled beneath Wyn’s jaw.

  “I’ll make it easy on you,” Papa mutters. “Push you to the point of self-defense or no return.”

  There’s a bitingly cold gale rising in the wood—the House isn’t happy about what Papa’s doing, and I’m furious and sick over who he’s become.

  My father’s hand tightens.

  The earth roars and shakes beneath us. Brambles burst from the ground, tearing Papa away from Wyn, vicious thorns piercing his wrists and ankles. The vines drag Papa back toward the House itself and Wyn follows unsteadily, pleading with Burleigh to stop.

  “It’s a Great House,” Papa rages at the boy. “It puts itself first, and you’re just a broken piece of it, now I’ve bound the two of you together. Sooner or later, it’ll take all of you for itself. And I want you to remember until then that you could have chosen your time. You could’ve kept me alive, or at very least given me a more merciful death.”

  The two of them are hidden by trees, and the earth stops its shaking as mortar begins to rain from the sky. I’m left alone in Burleigh’s memory of the winter woods, and for a moment, I wish I could stay here forever. Alone. Forgotten. Until the cold leaches into my bones and numbs my aching legs and I fall into a sleep that never ends.

  But the forest fades and my room swims back into view. I slip out of bed and into the hallway, where Wyn lies sleeping, shadows like bruises beneath his eyes. Sliding under the blanket, I curl up beside him. He shifts a little without waking, and his arm goes around me. But I don’t sleep again. I lie still and wait for dawn, knowing I won’t truly rest until all this is over and done with.

  25

  IN THE PALE LIGHT OF EARLY MORNING, I BREAK THE news that I’ve found the deed’s location to my coconspirators. Esperanza descends upon the House in full state to pack me up for the journey to Cornwall, while Alfred goes off to see about post-horses and stopping places and the like. Frey grants me a leave of absence. Mira kneads bread fiercely, looking wan and disapproving. Jed’s taken a rare morning at home, and he sits whittling in silence, though he’s wistful where Mira is fierce.

  Wyn’s nowhere to be found. I’ve given up trying to understand him, but I can’t blame him for disappearing—our last parting weighs heavy on me. It tore me in two, that last goodbye when we were children, and found ourselves separated for such a long time. I try to assure myself that I’ll be back soon, and we’ll be together again. It wears on me, though, thinking of leaving him behind. I worry that he lied and that while I’m gone, he may find the strength to give himself to Burleigh entirely. That he may be doing it right now. I want him by my side, to watch over as carefully as he’s watched over me. I steal time away from the others to look for him, but he’s nowhere in the House, and his shepherd’s hut is empty, the woods around it malicious and brooding, though there are gaps in the wall of thorns now.

  During a moment of solitude, when I’m left in my bedroom with a half-packed bag, I glare at the walls around me.

  “So help me, Burleigh,” I mutter, “if you let Wyn do anything foolish, I will set a match to you myself.”

  A cloud of old smoke billows out from the fireplace, and the walls groan sadly.

  In a matter of hours, everything’s ready. A dreary rain falls out of doors as if to mirror the way I feel, and again I’m reminded, with a heart-stopping pang, of the last time I left Burleigh behind.

  This time, it won’t be for seven years. It’ll barely be seven days. Yet there’s a painful lump in my throat as I hug Jed and Mira tightly on the doorstep.

  “Look after yourself in Cornwall,” Jed says, his voice a bass rumble. “We want our girl home safe when all this is over.”

  Mira presses a paper bag full of ginger biscuits into my hands. “For the road.”

  “I love you both,” I say, kissing her worn cheek. “And I’ll be back before you know it.”

  The words sound far more cheerful than I feel.

  “You’ll take care of Wyn for me, won’t you? Find him once I’m past the gate and don’t let him out of your sight. Tell him I said goodbye, and that I won’t be gone any longer than I have to.” I can’t keep a pleading note from creeping into my voice. They assure me they will, and then there’s nothing for it. I hurry down to the waiting carriage, ducking my head against the rain.

  “You’re so pale,” Espie fusses as I climb inside. “It’s a good thing we’re going on a trip to the seaside.”

  “It’s not a holiday,” Alfred reminds her, and she rolls her eyes at him.

  “Can’t it be both?”

  But I ignore their bickering, pressing a hand to the carriage window instead as white flowers bloom among the ivy that covers Burleigh from ground to roofline. It does nothing to dampen my sorrow over Wyn’s refusal to appear, knowing that at least Burleigh can bear to say goodbye.

  We jolt down the drive toward the lane. Rain drums against the carriage roof and I stare forlornly out the foggy window until we’re nearly to the bramble gate. But just shy of the gap, I let out a gasp and throw the carriage door open, tumbling out while it’s still in motion.

  I can hear Espie’s startled shriek, but I scramble upright and there’s Wyn, waiting near the wall, soaked to his skin. Rain plasters his hair to his forehead. He stands in that familiar way, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, and the relief I feel at the sight of him is a sharp and burning
thing.

  “Where were you?” I ask. In answer, Wyn steps forward and puts his arms around me and I can hardly think for missing him, though we’re still together. It was bad enough, being apart when I went to the fens. But since I returned, Wyn’s quiet presence has become essential to me.

  “I don’t want to leave you,” I tell him. “But I have to go.”

  “I want you to leave,” he says. “And I’d be lying if I said I don’t still wish you wouldn’t come back.”

  His words should sting. I know what he means by them, though.

  “It’s only for a little while,” I promise, putting a hand to the side of his face. “I’ll be back, and everything will be fine, once Burleigh’s free. I’m a Caretaker, aren’t I? Who’s to say I can’t take care of you both?”

  Wyn gives me the ghost of a smile, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.

  This feels all wrong. It feels like goodbye forever, not just for a week, but if I stay much longer, I won’t have the heart to go. Choking back a sob, I pull away from Wyn and walk the few steps to the carriage. Esperanza helps me up with a shake of her head.

  “All sorted?” Alfred asks.

  “For now,” I say bleakly. “Drive on.”

  We jolt our way through the gate, and it’s as if I’ve left half of myself behind. I huddle in a corner of the carriage, a few feet between Esperanza and me, and I can’t understand why this feels so like dying. It should feel like victory, like moving toward hope, and yet here I sit, with my heart in tatters.

  It’s not till we’ve left Burleigh Halt and are rattling along the southern road that Esperanza speaks, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

  “Violet?” she says. “I know it’s hard to be parted. But you were right—it’s not going to be for long. You don’t have to fret on Wyn’s account.”

  “My father bound Wyn to the House,” I tell her. “To die on its behalf, if I can’t manage to save it. Papa took the two things I care for most in this world and put their survival at odds with one another. And I’m afraid—I’m afraid Wyn may give himself over to Burleigh while I’m gone, to keep me from becoming another Marianne Ingilby, and Burleigh from becoming another Sixth House. He’s worried the House may kill me, and I’m terrified he’ll let it kill him, to stop that from happening.”

  “Oh, Vi,” Espie says, and there’s a world of pity in her eyes.

  “But what can I do?” I ask, my voice beginning to break. “If I stay, he’ll be dead within a fortnight, when the king comes to burn Burleigh and the House . . . inhabits him. The only chance for him, not just Burleigh, is for me to go.”

  “I’m so sorry, darling,” Esperanza murmurs as I swallow back tears and panic. “So sorry.”

  Alfred offers no empty words of comfort. He sits on the bench across from us and his face, as he stares out at the rainy countryside, has a haunted look. After a while, Espie drops off to sleep, and we travel on in silence.

  26

  EVEN MILES AND MILES AWAY FROM BURLEIGH HOUSE, IN Cornwall, the weather is bleak. It rains all throughout our journey, and rains as we arrive at St. Ives in late afternoon. I pay the weather no mind, and walk down to the abandoned beach below the town. A stiff breeze whips the waves into whitecaps. I fill my lungs with the good clean smell of brine, as if it could drive the last traces of mortar from my bones, the last vestiges of fear and doubt from my veins.

  And it startles me to find that after years on the fens, standing on the shore and hearing the cry of the mournful gulls feels as much like coming home as going back to Burleigh did.

  “Violet!” Esperanza calls, coming down the beach wrapped in an enormous and cumbersome oilskin cloak. “Come inside, it’s nearly nightfall. What are you doing out here in the rain?”

  I take her by the arm and point to the vast, restless ocean. “Isn’t it beautiful? When I look at it, everything seems simpler. No matter what happens, that will still be there. The waves will still come and go. The tides will still rise and fall.”

  “Yes, it’s lovely, but won’t you come in?” Esperanza asks again. “You ought to have something to eat and turn in early, if we’re to track down the deed tomorrow.”

  “Not just yet,” I tell her. The sky is clearing on the western horizon, and the rain is beginning to let up. “I want to stay out and count the stars.”

  The thing is, I wonder if Wyn might be up on the roof of Burleigh House, numbering the stars and waiting for me. So I sit on the damp sand, and wait until all the sky is a wide, night-blue vault above me, spangled with the light of innumerable, immeasurably distant suns. I count them until I get lost in the dark places between, and then turn inward, to the dark places there, and manage my fears instead.

  But they are oh so many, and I lose myself among them as well.

  By the time I return, the inn’s public room is nearly empty. Only Alfred still sits up in a corner near the hearth, bent over his ever-present books and papers. As I cross the room, he glances up.

  “Violet Sterling, are you alright?” Alfred asks kindly. “I mean, not alright, but coping? How can we help?”

  I shake my head. “I’ve no idea. I’m just—what if we don’t find the deed? What if we do, and Burleigh kills me, like the Sixth House did to Marianne Ingilby? What if I can’t find Burleigh’s heart to complete the unbinding—they say only a Caretaker can do that. Or what if I free the House, and it doesn’t fix Burleigh the way we thought it would, but lets all that magic out into the countryside? What if everything goes well but the king decides to burn Burleigh anyway? What if Wyn—”

  I stop, because I can’t bring myself to speak that particular what-if into being.

  Alfred leans back in his chair. “Just do the next thing. Don’t focus on anything else. That’s how I cope with all this.” He waves a hand vaguely at our surroundings. “The living in inns, the bribery, the underhanded dealings. I just make do, because Espie wants to see the Great Houses freed in her lifetime, and if she wants something, she brings it about. If I hadn’t met her, I’d either be alone, poking through ruins in Europe on some abandoned hillside, or home at Weston Manor, buried among my books. Instead I am as you see me. A reluctant traitor to the crown.”

  “You do know when she’s queen, you’ll be prince consort?” I point out. “You’ll never really be settled then, or alone.”

  “I know,” he says. “But the thing is, Violet, some people are worth it. They’re worth giving up everything you thought you wanted. And Espie’s not just the princess of Wales to me, or even the girl I love. She’s home.”

  Blood and mortar, how can he be so certain when I’m so muddled? I love Burleigh and I loved the fens, and I’m not entirely sure yet what sort of love I have for Wyn; I only know I sleep better when he’s in earshot and I burn like a torch when he touches me.

  A good Caretaker puts her House first. Papa’s voice echoes in my head as I climb the stairs to the rented room Espie and I are sharing. Before king. Before country. Before her own life. Before her heart.

  I believed him once, with all my heart. But now I’m not sure I can live that way anymore.

  “You should have slept later,” Esperanza chides when I appear in the inn’s public room before sunrise. “The sea cave will still be there.”

  “I couldn’t.” I sit down across from her at a small side table and she clears a pile of correspondence away to make room. A serving girl appears next to us with a bob of her head.

  “Just a muffin and some tea,” I say, and the girl disappears. “Where’s Alfred?”

  “Still sleeping, like you should be,” Espie answers, never one to let a chance at driving home her point pass her by. “He’s always late to bed and late to rise when he has his choice.”

  “Why aren’t you still sleeping, then?” I ask.

  Esperanza cuts a sausage into dainty slices and pops one in her mouth, chewing meditatively. “I suppose I never feel as if I should have the luxury. If I’m to be queen someday, I ought to rise when my subjects do, and the fishermen se
t out to sea an hour ago. The farmers have already milked their cattle. The tin miners are at their pitches. Who am I to lie abed?”

  I rest my chin on one hand and gaze at her, so full of life and so certain of herself. “Espie, do you ever think we want too much? Me wanting to save Burleigh, you wanting to take the throne, all of us wanting a new fate for the Great Houses? Maybe . . . maybe it’s just more than we’re meant to have.”

  Esperanza wipes her mouth on a napkin, sets it down, and wags a finger at me. “Don’t be a fatalist. It’s too early, and it doesn’t become you. Who’s ever said we should have less?”

  “Your father, for one,” I point out.

  “My father, and all of my forefathers back to William the Deedwinner, sat on the throne of this country because they wanted something that didn’t belong to them. The world is full of men who want things, and never question their right to go after them.” Esperanza’s eyes spark, and she leans forward in her chair. “Why should we feel any less worthy than they do, so long as what we want does no harm?”

  For the first time, I’m struck by the thought that my friend, with whom circumstances have thrown me together, will make an excellent queen.

  “Are you talking about the Deedwinner?” Alfred says, appearing beside us and drawing another chair up to the table. “I’ve nearly got to his chapter in my monograph.”

  He’s impeccably tidy as always, and Espie favors him with an approving smile.

  “You’re up early.”

  “Turning over a new leaf. I can’t let you feel smug about greeting the dawn all the time, can I? And I had a feeling Violet would want to make an early start. So I’ll go talk to the staff about packing us a lunch, because whether we find the deed or not, we’ll likely be hungry after clambering around in a cave.”

  “Why don’t you pace or something?” Espie tells me when he’s gone. “You look like a caged bear.”