Page 17 of A Treason of Thorns

Wyn sits up with a single fluid motion and fixes his eyes on me. I canfeelrestrained anger radiating from him, just as I always feel Burleigh’s frame of mind.

“That is the truth,” Wyn says. “Or at least as much of it as I’m willing to tell.”

I rest my head against the chimney and watch the sky as Burleigh paints a mournful, pale green aurora across it. It isn’t the season for such a sky. But here—magic is always in season at Burleigh House.

“Violet,” Wyn says, and my heart sinks at the sound of his voice. I know what he’s about to say. “Come with me when I leave tomorrow.”

“I can’t,” I tell him regretfully. “You know I can’t.”

“Trying for the deed will get you killed. Better to leave Burleigh to its fate—let things run their course, and let the king put it down before it ruins the West Country. Yes, I know that’s what he plans to do—gossip travels faster than horses.”

The slate roofing tiles shudder and jump beneath us, making a high-pitched, chattering sound. I reach back and press a hand to the solid brick of the chimney and slowly, Burleigh calms.

“I told you I haven’t changed,” I say. “Burleigh still comes first for me. Before—”

“Stop,” Wyn says angrily, that bad temper I sense bubbling up from beneath the surface. “Burleigh isn’t human, Vi. It’s not your family or your friend. It serves its own ends, and that is all. Even your father acknowledged that fact—a Great House puts itself first. This place does not deserve your loyalty or your blood or your tears. It is a monster bent on nothing but its own survival, and every pretty trick, every fire lit for you, every flower blooming at yourfeet, is nothing but a ploy to win your affection.”

A breeze kicks up, making a sad, dissenting sound as it runs over the open mouth of the chimney.

“Well, if Burleigh’s such a monster, why are you still here?” My words ring on the night air like a challenge. “You could have left weeks ago. Yet here you are, Haelwyn of Taunton. Here you are.”

“I stayed for you,” Wyn grits out. “To try and change your mind about this place. But I see you’re right—you’re no different than before. Still stubborn and pigheaded as ever when it comes to Burleigh. Do you know who had the right idea about this House? Your mother. She’s the clever one. Got out while she still could.”

He scrambles to his feet and swings back into the attic through the dormer window before I can reply. I’m left swallowing back tears yet again—it seems that’s all I’ve done since coming home.

A few feet away from me, just where Wyn was sitting, a pair of ghosts spring to life. My child-self and Wyn as he once was sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder, sharing a thermos of tea back and forth between them and watching the stars. There’s a strange bluish cast to them and an odd sort of ripple, as if they’re lit by sun reflecting off water. It’s a peculiarity of Great Houses, this dredging up of old memories that makes it look as if spirits haunt the halls and grounds.

I watch for a moment before wincing and shaking my head. “Please don’t, Burleigh.”

The children Wyn and I were flicker and fade away.

7

IT’S STILL FULLY DARK WHEN I WAKE THE NEXT MORNINGto the sound of rooks shouting at one another in the House’s eaves. For a moment I’m disoriented, not sure why the gulls sound so strange, and then I remember—I’m home. My head throbs with too little sleep, but I sit up anyway. The smells of stone and wood smoke and mildew wash over me, along with the fresher, cleaner scents of earth and wet grass, drifting in from the windows I forgot to shut last night.

Movement near the fireplace catches my eye, and I freeze in place. There, beside the cold hearth, is my own ghost. I can feel an urgency in the air, a sort of static hum registered by the skin and not the ears. Burleigh wants my attention. It has something to say, and this time I let its memory play on.

Little Violet must be nine, judging by the ragged patch of hair at the back of her head. I remember that—I’d caught my braid on spruce gum and had to have it cut out by Mira. My younger self, brought back to temporary life by the House, lies on the hearth rug with a well-worn copy ofGulliver’s Travelsopen in her hands. Likethe memories last night, Little Vi’s not quite solid or real. I sit and watch as she glances at the clock on the mantelpiece, tucks the book under one arm, and skips out of the room.

As a child, I grew used to turning a corner and finding some long-dead Sterling in the corridor or beyond an open door, as the House pondered an incident in its past. But Burleigh’s memories have never come with this sense of importance before—with the awareness that there’s something my House is desperately trying tosay. Curiosity piqued, I slip out of bed and follow after Little Vi.

She makes her ghostly way down the stairs, step by slow step, barefooted and sliding her hand along the banister to better feel what the House feels. I do the same, and there’s restlessness under the habitual anxiety and pain creeping up from the floor. Something about this memory Burleigh wants me to see worries it, and I wish I could ask the House why.

My child-self dances down the central corridor of the east wing, heading out through the conservatory and across the rose garden. She picks up her skirts and leaps like a deer through the wildflower meadow, forcing me to hurry to keep up. Though there’s enough light to see by and the sky is growing pink with dawn in this present moment, the Violet of the past is lit by full sun. It must have taken place at midmorning, this memory, though I can’t recall it yet.

At the very edge of the meadow, up against the woods at the back of the grounds, Little Violet ducks into a summerhouse. I blink uncertainly—the small, glass-paned building is there, but not there. Sometimes I see a pile of rubble, sometimes the structure whole and complete. And I think I know now what it is the House is dwelling on.

The summerhouse’s interior ripples with the same shifting, limpid light that strikes my ghost. I settle down on the ground to watch as my father and a gentleman, white-skinned and prosperous-looking, speak in hushed tones. Little Vi sits nearby and opens her book once more. I remember that—the book, my father’s nearness. What I’ve never remembered is the conversation he had. All I recall is the sweet scent of the roses overgrowing the summerhouse, and Gulliver among the Houyhnhnms.

The House remembers, though. And it remembers what I didn’t see at the time—Wyn as a small boy, crouching in the long grass outside the summerhouse.

“—they want answers, George. They want us to make our move,” the unfamiliar gentleman says. His voice sounds distant, as if I’m standing with my ear to the keyhole of a locked door. “It’s time we have this done with.”

Outside the summerhouse, a stiff breeze seems to have risen up. Though I can’t feel it in my present moment, the stalks and heads of ghostly wildflowers tap-tap against the panes of glass, sounding for all the world like eager fingers. It’s as if a legion of Little Folk are asking to come in.

“It’s no use, Bertie,” Papa says. He’s haggard and careworn—I can tell all of this happened not long before the king descended with his soldiers and his charges of treason. “I’ve found locations for all the deeds except Burleigh’s. And if you think for an instant that I’ll set things in motion when my own House is the one left at risk, you’re a fool. There’s not a chance.”

My sun is fully up now, and shining cheerfully enough. But the light around Little Vi and Papa and the gentleman called Bertie hasgone grey. I can hear fitful gusts of rain beating against the glass of their summerhouse. Even as a child I was quick about picking up on the moods of the House, and rainfall during daylight hours should certainly have told me something was wrong—Papa kept everything well-regulated in the Blackdown Hills, with rain falling only in late evening. But that day I found myself so absorbed in my book, I failed to notice Burleigh’s growing discomfort, just as I missed a bedraggled Wyn, peering through the glass.