Page 1 of A Treason of Thorns

Prologue

A LACE-TRIMMED WEDDING INVITATION SITS ON MYnightstand and I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Mama is not coming back. It was inevitable, but so far in life, ignoring the inevitable has always been easy for me.

Until now.

There’s no avoiding the truth anymore. There it is, stamped in gold ink, wafting the lingering traces of rose-scented eau de toilette toward me.

Curled up on my side in bed, I stare at the invitation as if it’s a snake.

“Violet.” Wyn, my father’s ward, calls softly from the other side of the bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

He may not be able to see me nod, but the House can. There’s a click as it turns back the lock and a gentle scrape of hinges as it swings the door wide. I glance over and see Wyn crossing the room carefully, holding a cup of water with two hands so as not to spill. He’s always walked so since coming to Burleigh House—as if the ground beneath his feet is strewn with invisible bits of broken glass,and he might damage himself with a single wrong step.

Wyn sets the cup down on my nightstand, in front of Mama’s invitation, so that the print looks strange and distorted when seen through the glass. We may both be only eight and surrounded by servants—Jed and Mira, Papa’s steward and housekeeper, are never far off—but even as children this is what we do. We look after each other.

As Wyn takes a seat at my side, the comforting ivy Burleigh House has blanketed me with rustles and pulls away from him—they’ve never got on that well, Burleigh and Wyn. Flames flare deep purple on the hearth and the lamplight glows in the same shade. Poor old House—it hates to see me unhappy just as much as Wyn does. I sometimes forget in these moments when Burleigh’s so kind and solicitous that it’s one of the five Great Houses, whose vast magic governs the well-being of England. To me, my House has always been both more and less than that. Burleigh, like Wyn, is simply this: both family, and a friend.

Wyn shifts, putting a little more space between himself and Burleigh’s retreating leaves. If he were anyone else, he’d ask if I’m alright. But Wyn’s been a quiet child since the day Papa brought him back to Burleigh House from a Taunton foundling home. Which is just as well, if you ask me—I’ve never seen much use in endlessly worrying over troubles. I don’t want to talk about how Papa’s gone yet again, off in London on House business. I don’t want to talk about how Burleigh House’s fears have been seeping into me through the floors, and how sometimes they make my heart pound so fast I can hardly breathe.

I absolutely do not want to talk about Mama.

Instead, I hug my legs tighter, wishing to make myself so small I’ll disappear. Wyn looks down at me, solemn and wide-eyed. I know he and the House will stay with me all night and dog my steps tomorrow. They never abandon me, at any rate. The House will wrap me in flowers and lull me to sleep with nightingale song, and Wyn—well. Wyn never sleeps in his own bed. He prefers a pile of blankets and a pillow in my airing cupboard.

I can’t help but remember what Mama thought about all of this. My mother and father fought about everything, but the way I feel about Burleigh and Wyn came up often.

“Sheshouldput the House first, Eloise,” Papa would say. “Vi will be Caretaker of this place when she’s grown. Burleigh will choose her, I’ll pass on the key when I’m ready, and His Majesty will certainly approve of the arrangement—you know the king’s always taken an interest in Vi. This is who she’s meant to be.”

“She doesn’t know who she isnow, let alone who she ought to be in the future,” Mama always argued back. “And how will she ever sort herself out if you keep her tethered to Burleigh House and never let her be with ordinary children?”

“Wyn keeps her company.”

“He isnotan ordinary child.”

They’d go on and on like that, in endless circles, arguing behind closed doors. Perhaps they didn’t know Wyn and I sat outside listening, or perhaps they were past caring.

But now all the fighting has come to an end, and Mama’s off in Switzerland, planning her second wedding to some foreign baron.

“Wyn.” I sit up and look at him. I need to know that all this isworth it. I need to know that no matter what I’ve lost, I’ve lost it for the greater good.

“Yes?” he says, all untidy sandy hair and serious grey eyes.

“Do you think I’ll be a good Caretaker for Burleigh House?”

Wyn doesn’t answer. He fixes his gaze on the blanket of ivy still covering my bed, except for the conspicuously empty space around him.

“A good Caretaker puts her House first,” I say, half to myself.

“Always?” Wyn asks.

I reach out a hand and a strand of green ivy twines around my wrist, a near match for the latticework birthmark of slick pink skin that stamps me there, like a bracelet. “Always. Papa says so—a good Caretaker puts her House before king. Before country. Before family. Before her own life, even.”

“But what if you change your mind?”

Now that is unthinkable. Mama may leave, I may grow up, but the one thing that will never change is my resolve to serve Burleigh House. My father, George Sterling, is a perfect Caretaker, and in the rare moments when he’s at home, he sees to it that I learn my place. That one day I’ll follow after him: the best Caretaker England has ever known. Under Papa’s watchful tenure, Burleigh has thrived. The counties our House governs have known peace and prosperity.

“I willneverchange my mind,” I tell Wyn. “I’ll put Burleigh first all my life, because this place is greater than you or me or any one person.”

And though I’ve learned this lesson by rote under the watchful eye of my stern father, my heart still swells when I repeat it. For aslong as I can remember, Burleigh has been everything to me. This House is like a mother, father, comforter, and friend. I intend to repay the favor someday, when I’m able.