Getting to my feet, I’ve nearly decided to go back home, but then I see a figure moving through the trees near the edge of the grounds, starting and stopping as they go. With a frown, I walk toward them.
When I’m close enough to make out who it is, everything comes crashing back. I remember who I am once more: Violet Sterling, Caretaker by default of this ancient and vicious place, this House of terrible beauty, with its violent desire to be free no matter the cost. I am all that and more, since Wyn’s life depends on my success. I’ve never been much of a one for games, but I’ve gambled everything on this endeavor.
And I haven’t found my House’s heart. Instead, I’ve found the Duke of Falmouth, His Majesty’s dirty hands, burning my beloved Burleigh’s forest. Falmouth strides through the back woods with a bucket of oil, dousing the trunks of twisted, mortarous trees. When a dry twig snaps beneath my feet, he glances up and gives me a wolfish smile.
“Miss Sterling. I caught a glimpse of you earlier but you were—how shall we say it—not yourself? Well done, Burleigh House, she looked absolutely bewildered. Ripley Castle never got nearly this far into the Ingilby girl’s head.”
The ground trembles beneath my feet and a breeze whips up, whispering angrily among the tree branches. It’s heavy with the scent of damp earth and lamp oil. I cross my arms and glare at Falmouth, trying to make myself small and stubborn and thorny. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m here to finish this,” Falmouth says, setting down his bucket and stepping into the path between me and the House. “It’s so much tidier this way—we can’t very well have you unbinding Burleigh, not even to save the place. Can you imagine if you succeeded? There’d be a general uproar, and people would be asking why every House can’t be unbound.”
“Why can’t they?” I ask, belligerence weighting my words.
Falmouth shakes his head. “You know why. This isn’t personal, Miss Sterling, it’s politics—no one likes to give up power, and the Great Houses are power. His Majesty’s power, and, by extension, mine.”
“You’re a villain,” I say, and try to step around him.
But Falmouth stays in front of me, blocking the way. “Am I? Am I really? Look around you. There’s only one villain on these grounds, and that’s the House itself. Burleigh is already wreaking havoc in the West Country. Crops are failing—have already failed. Mortar’s leaking out into the countryside and poisoning the earth. And what’s this I hear about Burleigh and your father binding that boy? We’ve all hedged our bets, Violet. Your father took precautions should you fail. I’m taking precautions to ensure you don’t succeed.”
“If the king wanted to burn me alive with Burleigh, he should have just done it at the beginning of summer,” I snap. Falmouth’s under my skin, though I shouldn’t let him nettle me. “Why wait all this time?”
“Oh, he had no intention of burning Burleigh with you inside the grounds,” Falmouth purrs. “You’re a bit of a blind spot for the king—I doubt he’s even serious about hanging you. But I don’t like the idea of the House damaging more of the land while you’re in here, or if you fail—there’s that little matter of the rents I’ll be collecting when all this is over, you see. As per your agreement with His Majesty, the land in these parts will still be mine. So I took the initiative, and now I’ll trouble you for that heartstone. Can’t have you running back to the House and unbinding Burleigh while it’s already ablaze.”
I shake my head and glance past him at Burleigh, but he’s blocking the way and the forest floor beyond the path is a sinuous tangle of brambles. Even if the way were clear, I can’t leave him, not with the forest drenched in oil and ready to go up in flames.
Falmouth adjusts one of his cuff links fastidiously.
“The stone, Miss Sterling,” he repeats.
“Never.” I scowl at him.
“Very well.”
He reaches into his jacket pocket. Light gleams on metal and by the time my mind’s processed that it isn’t a tinderbox in his hand, it’s a pistol, the aftermath of a shot is already echoing through the air. Pain like I’ve never known splinters up my right leg and I crumple to the ground.
But I never let go of the heartstone.
The Duke of Falmouth walks over and stands above me, pistol still in hand. On his watch chain, I catch a glimmer of red—the bowstone of Burleigh House’s key. It sickens me to see it in his possession, and I grasp the stone more tightly.
“You’re a foolhardy creature,” Falmouth says with a shake of his head. “Don’t know when you’re beaten, just like your father. I would advise you to lie very still, and hope Burleigh House thinks enough of you to hasten your end.”
I watch through blurred vision, clutching the place where his shot lodged in my leg. Blood pours out over my hands, and it’s coming far too fast, slicking my palms and pooling on the forest floor. I stuff the heartstone into my pocket to get a better grip, but it’s not enough. Where my skin still shows through the scarlet stains, I can see myself growing paler.
Falmouth’s footsteps retreat a little way, and I hear the striking of a match. Then the flare of flames, followed by a sudden, acrid billow of smoke.
“Goodbye, Miss Sterling,” Falmouth says. “Pity about the House. I would have enjoyed bringing it to heel.”
“Burleigh, I need you,” I whisper, and the slur of my own words alarms me. “I know we’re at odds, but I need you.”
Everything in me stiffens as House magic rushes up from the ground and pours mortar through my veins.
“That’s not what I meant,” I gasp frantically. “Stop it, Burleigh, you’ll kill me.”
But the magic doesn’t stop. I curl up on my side and stare at the leaves carpeting the forest floor, as with each heartbeat, blood rushes out of me and mortar rushes in.
32
I DON’T KNOW WHEN I’VE EVER BEEN SO COLD. BUT IN A way, it’s a mercy because I can feel nothing else. None of the other pains—my splitting head, my torn feet, my bleeding leg—even register anymore. The trees waver and spin, and I glance down at the place where Falmouth’s shot struck me, a handspan above the knee.
Mortar rimes the edge of the wound. It’s already slowed the flow of blood, making it sluggish and thick. I watch as little by little, mortar seals my torn flesh altogether. As it does, the flood of magic pouring into me abates. I won’t bleed to death, so long as I survive the mortar itself.
I never should have doubted my House.
Falmouth, still lighting fires nearby, grunts to himself, as if he’s not sure whether to be put out or glad. I hear the sound of him fiddling with his single-shot pistol, the leaden clink of another ball entering its chamber, the little hiss of gunpowder being added.
Then there’s a flurry of crackling dead leaves, followed by the sound of two solid things striking against one another. I struggle to push myself up on one elbow. Falmouth is on the ground, reeling, and just as he stood over me Wyn stands over him now, holding a splintered beam ready to strike again. And I can’t tell who he is, the boy I know or Burleigh or both at once. All I know is that there is something strange and fearsome on his face that I have never seen there before.
“Stop it, Wyn,” I gasp, to whoever’s wearing the body of the boy I love. Veins of darkest grey are running through his already stony skin. “The House is bound never to take a life, and you’re more than half Burleigh now. If you break another part of the binding—”
“Have you looked at him?” Falmouth’s voice is bitter. He kneels in the bracken and glances up at Wyn. “Whoever he was, there’s no coming back from this. He’s not the boy you knew anymore—Burleigh’s brought him to ruin, just like it will do to all the West Country if you unbind it, or let it have that stone. Do you know what I’m really doing here, Violet? I’m saving the countryside from you and Burleigh House. From the reckless foolishness of Sterlings, who believe this place can be better than it is.”
I look at Wyn, and for a moment I see him as Falmouth does—as something made monstro
us by Burleigh’s power. As someone past the point of no return.
But it’s only for a moment, and then my vision clears, and in spite of all his changes, I see only this when I look at Wyn: the friend of my childhood, and of my heart. Turning to the forest, already filling with smoke, and to the glimpse of the House between the trees, I don’t see ruin, either. I see something worth saving, no matter how far it’s fallen. No matter the things it’s done.
In the end, I suppose this is my gift and my curse—that however Burleigh or Wyn may change, however much damage they inflict or suffer, they will always be lovely and worthy of love to me. And I will never stop fighting for them, or hoping for a world in which they are both whole and well.
I sit up, shedding leaves, and try getting to my feet, but my legs buckle. Once more I try to stand, and it does no good. I feel half made of stone myself, I’m so full of mortar, and somewhere inside me, the lead pistol shot scrapes against bone.
“She’s going to die,” the Duke of Falmouth says. “Why not make it quicker for her, Burleigh? You know this will only go one way—the girl was bound to failure from the start, as surely as you’ve been bound to the king and the boy’s been bound to you.”
“Shut up and don’t move.” However he may look, it’s Wyn speaking, not Burleigh.
“Or what? You’ll kill me and break your binding?” Falmouth retorts. “I don’t think you’d dare.”
Wyn ignores him.
“Violet, take out the heartstone,” Wyn says.
Mutely, I obey. But the moment I do I begin to bleed again, as the power of Burleigh’s missing piece leaches both blood and mortar from my veins. Wyn reaches out and places his own hand over the stone, still cupped in my palm.
I take in a trembling breath as warmth, rather than ice, spreads within me. I have never felt a magic like this before—one that suffuses my limbs with blissful well-being, and whispers of spring and rebirth. The lead ball works its way free of my bones, my sinew, my skin, and drops to the forest floor. The torn flesh left in its wake knits back together. Painstakingly slowly, a little of the ice begins to melt from my blood, mortar dripping from my fingertips and pooling beneath my feet.
Around us, too, the woods begin to green. Brambles recede. Bluebells carpet the ground in their wake and the nearest trees burst into summer life, hale and whole once more, except for those that are already in flames. I gaze on it all in wonderment.
“What is it?” I ask Wyn.
“House magic,” he says with a smile. “The way it’s meant to be.”
Anguish gnaws at me, though, because while it’s worked on everything else, the heartstone has done nothing for Wyn. Even as he smiles, there’s an emptiness behind his eyes, and I wonder how much more magic he can do before Burleigh claims the last of him, and he becomes nothing but an empty shell for the soul of the House.
But then the Duke of Falmouth turns, and the pistol’s in his hand once more.
“Alright, I’ve got to be going, so which of you is first?” he asks with that wolfish smile. “And if I shoot the boy, will anything actually happen?”
Wyn steps forward.
“Why don’t you try it, and find out?” he says softly, standing only a few paces from Falmouth.
The duke raises his pistol, but as he does, Wyn raises a hand, too. Not quickly, not aggressively, not as if he’s about to wrest the firearm away. Falmouth frowns as Wyn reaches out and touches one finger to his wrist.
That’s all it takes. A torrent of killing magic roars through Wyn and into Falmouth. The duke sinks to his knees, shaking like a leaf on the wind. For a moment, a cloud of smoke hides him from view, but when the air clears again, I watch in horror as vines burst from his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. He falls, and Burleigh’s ravenous greenery consumes him utterly.
“Wyn,” I choke, scrambling toward him. “Wyn, are you still there?”
He turns to me, and for the briefest moment, there’s a familiar light in Wyn’s eyes.
“I’m glad I was brave enough for you,” he says.
Then the last of that light leaves him. When I reach out and brush a hand against his face, there’s no feeling of waiting, of temporary absence. Not the faintest spark.
“Wyn, come back,” I beg, taking his face in my hands. “It’s Violet—please, come back to me.”
But only Burleigh remains.
“He took it upon himself to break the binding,” Burleigh says with Wyn’s mouth, in its voice like shattering stone. “And there was so little of him left. We spared him for you as long as we could, Sterling girl. But in the end, he wanted to go.”
“He’s not—” I can hardly bring myself to speak the words. “He’s not gone? For good?”
Burleigh makes no answer at first, and I can feel all the House’s brooding attention pondering the question I’ve asked.
“We would rather not tell you,” Burleigh finally says. “You are . . . very small. And perhaps more fragile than we’d thought.”
“Answer. The question.”
The creature before me, that is not my Wyn, and may never be again, hangs its head. “He is ours entirely now, Sterling girl—a part of us, and inseparable. But we are sorry we cannot give him back.”
For a long time I keep entirely motionless, afraid even to breathe. Because I know the moment I begin to feel this loss, it will cut deeper than any thorn. Weigh heavier than all the world’s mortar. Breed more damage than years of working House magic.
At last I glance over one shoulder to the edge of the woods. A wall of flame is eating away at the trees, flames hungrily consuming Burleigh’s power and magic. But Burleigh can begin again, go elsewhere to take a new shape with the life Wyn’s given it.
I hold the heartstone in my two cupped hands and the wide world beyond the grounds seems sere and empty. This could end now. I could leave, clamber over the wall, and disappear. Cast off my name, and the expectations it brings with it. In a way, the prospect is almost inviting. A fresh start. A clean slate. It’s what Wyn always tried to convince me I wanted.
The truth is, though, I don’t want any of that after all the things I’ve seen. After everything I’ve lived through, and all that I’ve lost. Nothing seems worthwhile anymore. Not the world. Not a life on my own. Not even Burleigh House.
But since the day I was born, I have been taught one thing. It comes as naturally as breathing to me, the knowledge that I am a Caretaker, and a good Caretaker puts her House first.
Before king.
Before country.
Before her life and her heart.
Now, at last, it’s time for me to decide if I will break free of my bond, or fulfill the fate that Burleigh House and my father placed upon me. At the thought, something dark and bitter rises up within me. A wanting. A longing. A brooding desire, laced with vengeance.
I don’t know if it’s possible for Burleigh to return Wyn—for us to have another chance at becoming all the things we were never able to be, both on our own and together. But I do know this—if I stand at Burleigh’s heart, with its missing piece in my grasp, I could bind it with blood and mortar to spend the last of its power and the final moments of its life at least trying to bring him back.
Rather than taking the few steps left between me and freedom, I slip the heartstone into my pocket and turn toward the House.
“Where are you going, Sterling girl?” Burleigh calls after me, but I make no answer.
The ground rumbles incessantly as I cross the field. The air is thick with smoke, and everywhere, brambles burst from the ground, slithering across the soil. Strange, light-on-water memories float above them—all the many ghosts of Sterlings gone before. Burleigh House itself is nearing absolute ruin. The roofless attics have all collapsed into the second floor, and bits of stone crumble from the remaining walls. Overhead, the sky boils with clouds, thick with unspent rain.
Inside the door I meet more ghosts. All of them drift silently through the remains of the House, like spirits leaving a dying
body. And perhaps they are. I move against the flow of them, feeling nothing but a shift of cold air as they brush past me. They’re all coming from the same place, moving down the main stairs like water over rapids and then splitting off in different directions as they reach the landing.
Stepping out of the way, I tuck myself into a secluded spot next to the stairs. And I watch the ghosts as I think, mind racing. The heart of the House. The heart of the House. Surely, in all the years Burleigh and I have spent together, at some point it showed me a glimpse of its hidden heart.
With a start, I recognize one of the remembered Sterlings floating past. It’s my grandfather, who I’ve only ever seen in an oil painting, and through Burleigh’s eyes. My father’s not far behind him, and the sight of them as they’re remembered by Burleigh tightens my throat. They’re not anxious or worried or wasted by House magic. Instead, they look calm, at peace, even happy. These aren’t just ghosts, or memories, for surely my House has memories of people it hated—the king and all his predecessors, to begin with.
No, this procession of Sterlings is a parade of all the people Burleigh ever loved.
I stiffen at the thought, and at the sight of that procession of ghosts, all pouring down the stairs, all coming from the same direction. Taking the heartstone from my pocket and gripping it tight, I push back into the current of memories and begin to climb the stairs. The brambles choking the staircase have crumbled to ash that stains my feet as I hurry up the trembling steps. On the landing I see that while every door in the House stands open, one is shut. And every memory passes through it, appearing like figures passing through a cloud of mist.
Stopping outside Papa’s room, I try the door. Locked. There’s no roof left overhead, just the sky simmering with rainclouds. A crack forms in the wall beside me, yawning open with an inhuman groan.
“Burleigh,” I say, knocking insistently. “Burleigh House, let me in.”
The door stays locked.
A Treason of Thorns Page 27