Page 20 of A Treason of Thorns

Shifting, I lie down on my side, one ear pressed to the floor,which is chill and smooth beneath the skin of my jaw, the side of my mouth. If I could, I would sink down into the very heart of the House and lend it my strength. But brick and mortar, skin and bone, have always been at odds.

“Tell me what ails you,” I whisper to Burleigh, desperate to help. “Show me where it hurts.”

A ponderous groan heaves up from the floor beneath me.

“That’s right,” I coax. “Unburden yourself, my love. I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”

The House is tentative. It opens up slowly at first. A few threads of pain snake through my skin and into my blood.

“There you are,” I tell Burleigh. “Show it all to me. Don’t be afraid.”

The threads grow into ribbons that become ropes that become iron. Intractable bands of the House’s pain wrap around the soft, necessary things inside me. Halfpenny nails of it stud my bones, their small, sharp points driving deeper and deeper, filling me with fractures.

I lie on the floor and gasp, tears starting in my eyes. But I will not cry out or beg the House to stop. I must know the worst and the worst is this—even darling Burleigh, ancient as the hills, greater than I can fathom, powerful beyond measure and wise in ways past human comprehension, cannot survive long in the face of so much pain.

A low, anguished sound escapes me as I’m struck by a sense of rot, of things going bad and decaying at my very core. I can no more escape this awful awareness of the House’s dying than all those numerous limpid creatures could escape the razor edge of myfishing spear. It grows so great I cannot bear it—I’m just a girl, after all. A little, fragile thing made of breakable parts.

And then the cold bite of mortar begins.

It nips at my fingers to start, then gnaws at my knuckles, freezes my wrists. I watch, dully, as the veins lining my hands stand out and go grey.

You have to stop this, the fierce fen-survivor in me says.Stop it now.

It’s all you have to give, the part of me that was born to be a Caretaker argues.All you have. Doesn’t your House come first?

And in a way, it’s reassuring. Great Houses are extremely particular about who they’ll work House magic with. If Burleigh is willing to use me as an outlet for its mortar, it must see me as a true Caretaker, whether I have a key or not.

But none of that makes this any less dangerous.

Before I can decide what to do, the cold fades. Burleigh’s pain vanishes as the House wrenches back, pulling its power and attention away from me with a supreme effort. There’s a horrible sound of splintering wood as the floor splits and a rift opens up along the center of the ballroom. For a moment the chandelier teeters on the edge and then tips over, what’s left of it smashing at the bottom of the newly opened chasm.

I sit up, somewhat unsteadily, and take a breath. What am I doing here? Wyn was right—I’ve no idea how to be a Caretaker. For all my father drilled it into me that someday, I’d look after Burleigh House, I’m only making things worse. But oh, Burleigh, Iwantto help.

Burying my head in my hands, I think of Papa. Of the man hewas, and of the space he left behind. Of how small I feel, when I imagine trying to follow after him as a guardian of this powerful, incomprehensible place. Of how high the stakes have risen, and how little I can do to help without the Caretaker’s key, which I’ve held but once before in my life.

I still remember the feel of that key. The heaviness of it on my palm, the bite of its teeth against my skin when I held it tight. The way the bowstone warmed to my touch and wicked mortar from my skin as I worked magic the way a Caretaker ought to. I think of it now, as I sit and wait for the intolerable aching of House magic to fade from my limbs.

We were on holiday at the Cornish coast the day my father handed me the key to Burleigh House. We never went far from home in those days—Papa already hated leaving the House behind to travel to London for the Home Council. Mama used to beg to visit the Continent—even Scotland would do, she said, but we never left the West Country. Secretly, I was glad of it.

So we went to St. Ives the summer I was seven. Mama was moody the whole week we spent at a rented guest cottage. Papa and I did our best not to notice, making sandcastles and bathing in the surf and eating ice creams. I’d never spent so much time with him before, and it was lovely, if a bit strange. Wyn stayed at home with Jed and Mira, and I missed him every day. It was the one thing about the trip Mama insisted on—that we leave Wyn behind.

The morning we were to leave for home, dark clouds hung over the sea. Thunder grumbled from the west and lightning flared low on the horizon. Papa stood on the beach and watched, though our things had already been packed up and Mama sat waiting in thecarriage. It was as if Papa knew what was coming. Perhaps he did. Perhaps the House found a way to tell him.

Mama kept me at her side until a little boat emerged from the distant storm and limped into port. When I saw Papa head for it, I flung the carriage door open and bolted.

“Violet!” Mama called after me, a note of desperation in her voice. “Vi, come back here. Stay where it’s safe!”

But I tore across the sand until I reached Papa. He looked down at me, worry in his eyes.

“Now then, Vi. Let’s sort out this storm,” he said.

I knew well enough that Cornwall sometimes saw bad weather—not every storm could be calmed by the House’s magic, and the coast was often buffeted by squalls that Burleigh did no more than tame, so that they cost less in the way of lives and property than they might have. While Burleigh could maintain perfectly clear skies at the heart of the Blackdown Hills, even a House has a hard time pitting itself against the sea.

Papa and I hurried down a nearby pier to where the little boat had pulled up alongside a vacant slip. When the weathered fisherman aboard tossed a painter to Papa, he caught it and made the vessel fast, then helped the man ashore.

“I’m George Sterling,” Papa said, and even as a child it fascinated me, how he could speak his name and the tension drained out of people. The wind was rising by then, buffeting the pier and making whitecaps out to sea.

“Sir, that’s a hundred-year storm out there,” the fisherman shouted, raising his voice to be heard over the wind. “We never used to see them more than once a century, but they’ve been comingmore and more often since my grandfather’s day. It’s blowing in fast—you’d best get you and yours inland as quick as you can, and find some place to shelter. There’ll be damage done tonight, and no mistake.”