Page 2 of A Treason of Thorns

“We may not understand the House, we may not be able to speak with it, but Burleigh House was here watching over the West Country before you or I were born, and it will be here long after we’re gone. It is my duty as a Sterling to serve this place, and to help it care for the countryside. Mamaknewthat, Wyn. She knew it. But she was always jealous of Burleigh. She couldn’t see why it’s worth looking after.” I stop and swallow fiercely, past the heat burning in the back of my throat and behind my eyes.

Wyn stares down at the floor, looking as small and miserable as I feel.

“And what about a good House?” he asks after a long silence. I frown as he plucks an ivy leaf and shreds it to bits. “What does a good House do? Shouldn’t you get something in return?”

I run a finger across the ivy, soothing the place where Wyn marred it, and the leaves turn to my touch like flowers toward sun. “I don’t expect anything. A good House putsitselffirst, because the well-being of the countryside is bound up in the health of its House. And so a good House chooses its Caretaker wisely, and doesn’t spare them when trouble comes.”

The fire flickers on the hearth, as if to confirm my words.

“Violet.”

When I glance up at Wyn, the expression in his eyes makes my stomach clench. He always looks just so—restless, ill at ease, like an animal poised for flight—before making the suggestion I know is coming. “Let’s run away. You don’t have to stay here, or be aCaretaker, if you don’t want to. We could go to Switzerland, to your mother. Or somewhere else—you can choose, just... let’s leave.”

Wind moans in the chimney, like a sob, and the ivy on my bed begins to recede, sliding sadly away toward the windows it crept in through. Out of habit and out of practice, all my self-pity shifts as my heart goes out to Burleigh House.

“You shouldn’t say such things,” I tell Wyn, my tone a reproach. “You know I’ll never go, and you know even talking about leaving upsets Burleigh.”

Wyn hangs his head and looks so woebegone I don’t know who I feel for more—him, or my keening House.

“Oh, stop it, Burleigh,” I say, and the wailing wind subsides even as I speak. “I’m not going anywhere.”

But it’s Wyn who I throw my arms around, and he relaxes just a little. As much as Wyn ever does, at any rate.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” he whispers, and I hold him tighter.

“I’m not.” The words come out so fiercely I almost believe them. “I’m not, I’m not. I’ve got you and Burleigh, and Papa when he’s not working on House business. What more could I possibly want?”

After Wyn climbs off the bed and retreats to his makeshift cot in the cupboard, I get up. Opening the drawer in the nightstand, I pull out a letter Mama enclosed with the wedding invitation. It carries even more of her scent than the invitation itself, and I breathe in that aroma of roses, remembering the feel of her arms around me.

One sentence stands out, for the ink has run and spotted, as if tears were shed when it was written.

Come to me, my Violet—let me make a home for you here.

But I have a home. I am a Sterling—I was born on the grounds of Burleigh House, and someday, I hope to be as brilliant a Caretaker as Papa.

A good Caretaker puts her House first. Before king, before country.

Before family.

Kneeling next to the hearth, I feed Mama’s letter to the sympathetic flames, which shift to blue as I scrub the sleeve of my nightgown across my eyes.

“Think about something else. Anything else. It helps,” Wyn’s voice says from the shadows of the cupboard.

I take a shaky breath and begin to hum. It’s a song Papa always sings for me when he’s at home.

Blood for a beginning

Mortar for an end

Speak out your binding

Be you foe or friend

Take up the deed

Take it well in hand

And bind a House’s power