Page 11 of A Treason of Thorns

“Dex told me what I need to know,” he says as I settle onto the boat at his side. “This isn’t what I’d have chosen for you, Vi. Mira and I would have looked after you as long as you needed—kept you safe and away from the king. You’re our family now, you know?”

“I know,” I say, looking out, too, at the trackless fens I’ve grown so familiar with.

“You’re old enough to make up your own mind,” Jed tells me. “If Burleigh House is what you want, and you’re willing to deal with the king to get it, then back to Somerset we’ll go, and whatever happens, you’ll never hear a word of reproach from me.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to come. It may go badly, and I hate to see you uproot yourselves again on my behalf.”

Gently, Jed bumps my shoulder with his own. “Don’t talk nonsense. You’re ours, Vi. We go where you go.”

His Majesty’s left a carriage waiting for us in Thiswick. Its doors, emblazoned with the royal crest, have drawn quite a crowd. I squint dubiously at the emblem—a lion rampant in front of the five remaining Great Houses, on a sanguine field and with the family’s motto beneath:Operibus Eorum Cognoscetis. You Shall Know Them by Their Deeds.

“Well, that’s a mercy,” Mira sighs at the sight of the carriage, setting her baggage down and putting a hand to the small of herback. “At least we can make the journey in comfort.”

I dislike the reminder that it’s the king who has the last word about what happens to Burleigh. Eager as I am to go home, I hate the idea of climbing willingly into a gilded cage with His Majesty’s heraldry sealing my fate.

“What about the public coach?” I suggest. “I know it’s not as comfortable, but—”

Mira plants her feet. “If we’re going back to that House, you’d best get used to being beholden to the king, Violet Sterling. He owns it, and before long he’ll own you, too.”

But Jed stumps forward toward the carriage as she speaks.

“Drive on,” he orders the coachman gruffly. “We’re taking the coach.”

Mira lets out another pointed sigh as the carriage pulls away. We have lunch in the public house, and climb into the overcrowded coach when it arrives, our fares paid for by the bit of money Jed and I put aside after our last stint of thatch-cutting.

“Where are you headed?” a whey-faced curate seated across from me in the coach asks, to make conversation as the slow miles roll by.

“Burleigh House,” I tell him, though I want to be quiet. I want to sit with the fact of my father’s death, to let the grief wound up inside me unravel across the length of England, and sink away into the earth.

“A coach going north would have suited you better to get to Burghley,” he says with a prim frown. “You’re a bit out of your way.”

“Not Burghley in Cambridgeshire,” I answer, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. “Burleighin Somerset. Every noble with pretensions of grandeur wants a Great House, and they namedthat... edifice... in Peterborough after mine, when it was built. My Burleigh’s much smaller, or so I’ve been told. But it’s an actual Great House, with everything that entails.”

“You’re never Violet Sterling?” The curate goggles, a most unattractive expression on his already insipid face.

“In the flesh,” I admit.

All at once, the curate’s manner grows far more solicitous.

“Do you know, I support the cause your father died for. Unbind the Great Houses, I say. Snuff?” he asks, holding out a little box. The lid is emblazoned with keys—they’ve been the fashion forever, as long as there have been Caretakers to hold them. This time, I do roll my eyes, and wave dismissively at the curate and his snuffbox.

“Don’t trouble yourself trying to make friends. My House isn’t keen on strangers at the best of times, and nor am I. And if it’s my hand you have sudden designs on now you know I’ve a Great House to go home to, you should also know that Burleigh’s in dire straits. So I’m far too busy for nonsense, and ill-tempered, besides.”

The curate withdraws his snuffbox, growing very absorbed in the passing scenery, and Mira shakes her head at me.

“Manners,” she mouths, and I pretend not to understand.

It’s near two weeks we spend on the road, stopping at inns by night to stay in low-ceilinged rooms filled with cots and the unfamiliar sounds of sleeping strangers. We lose time for Jed and Mira to keep Shabbat, and I know they’re anxious about prying eyes, because we pass the day very quietly. It’s strange not to have candles and singing, or anything more to eat than a hurried bite in the inn’s public room. Even on the fens, when winter grew long and foodscarce, Mira found ways to make our Shabbat meals special. And at Burleigh House, Jed and Mira’s faith was never a secret, but a part of the fabric of our lives.

We have a late start on Sunday, losing another morning for me to attend service at an old Church of England. By the last afternoon of our protracted journey, Mira and I are short-tempered and Jed’s fallen completely silent.

But then Mira grips my hand tight in hers and points out the window.

“Look, Vi. It’s the Taunton church. We’ll be home soon.”

We carry on, and everything grows familiar, as if I remember it from a dream. Then at last we round a bend and the Blackdown Hills lie before us. A fierce joy twists inside me at the sight of patchwork pastureland and trees, all running up to the sky or down to valleys that hide little rivers and towns. The village of Burleigh Halt lies in just such a valley, and beyond it, up against the woods, Burleigh House.

It’s true. I’m nearly home. And I didn’t realize until now how at odds with myself I’ve been, miles away from this place. I don’t know what I’ll find at the House, but there is a rightness in this I can’t deny.