Page 22 of A Treason of Thorns

On the fourth day, rescue came, although it was not Mama. I never saw her face again after that day, and never really forgave her. Instead there was a great clamor outside and His Majesty the king swept into the room. I ran to him with a choking cry and he put his arms around me.

“Violet, my darling girl, I’m here to make everything alright,” he said.

And he did. Uncle Edgar took care of the arrangements for us to return home and rode in a carriage with me all the way. He distracted me with card games and sleight of hand while Papa, still delirious, rode in another coach with the king’s own physician.

But when we arrived at Burleigh House, Uncle Edgar stopped at the gate. At the end of the drive, the House sat forlornly. Half the shingles had been torn from the roof and littered the lawn. Every window had shattered, as if blown out by a blast of gunpowder. The front door lay on the gravel drive, torn from its hinges.

“I won’t go in,” Uncle Edgar said, patting my hand. “Dr. Foyle will stay with you until George is well. But the House won’t want me on the grounds, not when it’s like this. They’re touchy about the deedholders, you know—don’t like us seeing them at anything but their best.”

I took him at his word, and waved as his carriage jolted back down the lane. Once he’d disappeared from view, I stepped through the gate only to be met by Wyn, hurtling across the lawn. He threw his arms around my neck, and, astonished, I hugged him back.

“Is everything alright, Wyn?” I asked.

He nodded, eyes wide. “It is now.”

When Dr. Foyle helped Papa from the second coach, sweat still stood out on my father’s forehead and his face was very pale. But when he looked at Wyn and me, his eyes were clear and kind.

“Violet, give me the key.”

Without hesitation, I held out a hand. Since that moment on the beach, I’d gripped the key tight ever since he’d given it to me. It hadn’t even gone into my pocket, not once.

Papa took the key with a sigh and settled himself down on the front doorstep, leaning against the House for support.

“Sir,” Dr. Foyle protested. “You must go to bed at once.”

“No,” Papa said. “Not until I’ve helped Burleigh set itself to rights.”

I sat down at his side, and he rested a hand on the top of my head. “You did very well, Violet. Very well indeed. What a Caretaker you’re going to be.”

Pride flooded me from head to toe, even as the vast weight of Burleigh’s focus and power settled on Papa and he shut his eyes.

“Where’s Mama?” I asked Wyn quietly.

He shook his head. “Oh, Violet.”

“Where is she?” I asked again, my voice sharper.

Wyn fixed his eyes on the ground. “She took all of her things and left. I don’t—I don’t think she means to come back.”

“Papa?” I turned to my father, but his face was drawn and his attention entirely absorbed by Burleigh House.

Squaring my shoulders, I stood and took Wyn’s hand in mine. “Well, we’ll be alright, won’t we? We always are.”

But the words sounded flat, and hollow.

They still do, as I mutter them under my breath in the wreckage of Burleigh’s ballroom. I feel every bit as alone and unsure of myself as I did in that moment.

I told Wyn the truth—I haven’t changed at all. It’s only taken a day back at home for me to lose the surety I’d gained on the fens.

“What am I going to do, Papa?” I say to the air, and the earth, and the walls.

“He’s not going to answer, you know,” a sardonic voice says from behind me. Scrambling to my feet, I turn, and my stomach drops clear through the ruined floor.

His Majesty the king stands in the doorway, brushing an imagined fleck of dust from the snowy lace edging his sleeves. “Fortunately, I’m here to sort out your little troubles, though I must say, you’re not managing the House nearly as well as I’d hoped. Shall we have a chat?”

9

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? HOW DID YOU GET IN?” Iask the king after taking him to Papa’s study and settling into the chair behind the desk. I suppose I should be more formal, but old habits die hard. And then there’s the matter of the bitterness that still churns in my stomach every time I look at my godfather.