Page 19 of A Treason of Thorns

Wyn gives me a sharp look, and his jaw tenses. “The House showed that to you? Your father dying?”

“Yes. I think it wanted to make sure there were no secrets between us.”

“I asked it not to make you watch,” Wyn says, anger in his voice. “I’d have spared you seeing your father die. It seems Burleigh House is less merciful.”

“I’m glad it showed me,” I answer defensively. I’ve always been quick to defend Burleigh. No matter what it’s been forced to do, I don’t think that will ever change. My House is mother and father and home to me now—everything I have left. “I’d rather know the worst.”

Taking a second step forward, I wrap my arms around myself, as if they can protect me from the rejection I’m beginning to realize is inevitable.

“Can’t we part on good terms, Wyn?” I beg. “Even if we aren’t the way we once were? I know that life’s been unfair, and that you’ve had things worse than I did. But I can’t help wishing you weren’t leaving angry at me.”

He shakes his head wearily. “Violet, I’m not angry at you, I just wish you’d done as I asked and not come back at all. The House is failing, and if it founders entirely before the king sets a torch to it, ruin will follow in its wake. Ilikedknowing you were clear of that. I’d rather you still were.”

The ground trembles beneath us, the House clearly unhappy at the thought of me leaving it to its fate.

“I want you to own it to me,” Wyn says. “That Burleigh might be past saving.”

I press my arms tighter against myself, trying to contain the unhappiness I feel. “You sound like Mira, and I can’t agree with either of you. I can’t let Burleigh go without doing everything possible to keep it safe, and well, and whole. I have to try for this place, Wyn, no matter the risks.”

He holds a hand out to me. “Goodbye then, Violet.”

And it’s me this time who doesn’t reach back. Something—disappointment? resignation?—flits across Wyn’s face. He turns and walks off into the woods, where, in a moment, the trees hide him completely.

8

IT’S A TESTAMENT TO THE FACT THAT WE’RE STILL SETTLINGin that Jed and Mira and I only sit down to breakfast at midmorning the day after we arrive. I don’t think we’ve ever eaten so late before. It feels strange, and uncomfortable. Jed drains his cup of black tea and gets up, pressing a kiss to the crown of Mira’s head, and then mine.

“I’m off,” he says. “Don’t know when I’ll be back, so don’t wait supper.”

“Where are you going?” I ask, a little forlornly.

“To look for work,” he says. “If I’m lucky, I’ll find day labor on one of the farms.”

“While you’re at it, ask if anyone wants washing done,” Mira tells him. “I’ll want something to keep me busy.”

And then it’s just Mira and me, and Burleigh.

“Where’s Wyn this morning?” Mira asks.

“He left,” I say. “For good. I don’t want to talk about it.”

Mira reaches across the table and gives my hand a quick squeeze. “Alright. I’m sorry, love.”

I linger at the table after she gets up. I’m unaccountably anxious at the thought of wandering off into the House on my own. I don’t know why I should feel so nervous—perhaps it’s the time apart, or how poorly things went with Wyn. But I’m suddenly terrified that in spite of my insistence that I’m meant to be a Caretaker, I may turn out to be less than Burleigh needs.

Mira clatters about, opening and shutting cupboards, taking stock of what we’ve got in the House and what we’ll have to buy or borrow. After a while, she turns to me with a sigh.

“Violet, love, you’ve got to find something to do with yourself. Begin as you mean to go on, eh?”

I stand and let out a ragged breath. “You’re right. Have we got a broom and a dustpan I can use?”

“Corner cupboard. Good girl.”

I take them out and walk through the guest wing to the long-abandoned ballroom. The crystal chandelier’s fallen and smashed, no one bothering to clear up the bits of glass. I begin sweeping, and the shards make sharp, musical sounds as they’re pushed against one another. It seems like such a small thing to be doing—such an insignificant task compared to the immensity of Burleigh’s discomfort, which is bleeding up through my feet and pressing in on me from all sides.

Halfway through the job, I give up and slip out of my soft-soled shoes. The moment my bare feet hit Burleigh’s floors, that sense of old pain and prodigious effort intensifies. I reach out and press both hands flat against the hardwood planks in front of me.

No, not good enough.