Page 29 of A Treason of Thorns

No one mentions the king’s visit to Jed, and I’m glad of that. Idon’t need him deciding it’d be better to whisk me back to the fens, not now I’ve finally got a plan.

When I leave the kitchen, Jed’s whittling morosely and Mira and Wyn are at the washbasin, cleaning up the dishes. It isn’t that I don’t want to help—I do, and I think tomorrow I’d better go out and find a way to earn my keep—but my time tonight will be best spent on Burleigh.

Stopping in Papa’s study, I scoop his enormous, leather-bound household ledger off the desk and tuck it under one arm. Then I carry on up to my room and shut the door firmly behind me. As I do, a friendly, violet-hued fire springs to life on the hearth. The wardrobe door swings open. The water in the pitcher on my washstand warms of its own accord and lets off a gentle curl of steam. It seems my new sense of purpose has lifted Burleigh’s spirits, too.

Though I’m nearly vibrating with excitement at the prospect of doing something—anything—productive on Burleigh’s behalf, I smile. You’re right, House. I might as well be comfortable before I start poking around in your memories. Better for both of us, if I’m not too keyed up. So I wash with sweet-smelling soap and pull on clean nightclothes and a dressing gown. Not until I’ve finished that do I sit down cross-legged on the rug in front of the hearth and let out a trembling breath.

Spreading out Papa’s ledger in front of me, I scan the pages. He wrote everything in here—the price of crops, the dates of repairs, the requests and troubles of tenant farms, where he traveled and when. The last is what I’m looking for.

I scan the pages. Most of his trips have a terse explanation next to them in the margins.

September 14th, 18XX: London for a fortnight. Home Councilsession.

February 20th, 18XX: Bristol for a week. Arranging shipment of local goods.

But some are a mystery.

October 3rd, 18XX: Poole.

April 25th, 18XX: Minehead.

August 17th, 18XX: Exmouth.

If I know my meticulous father, he couldn’t resist the urge to record and document his illicit search for the deed. Here it is, spelled out in black and white. Just more trips on Burleigh’s behalf—nothing truly noteworthy, unless you knew what he was up to. Then those journeys with no explanation read like a map.

Or at least, I hope to God they do.

I cannot ask Burleigh about the deed outright, for fear of pushing my beleaguered House so far it loses control of its pent-up magic. But Burleigh isn’t bound to prevent talk of my father, and it certainly seems keen on remembering him. I’m not sure anyone’s ever asked the House to remember something before—to dredge up a particular moment in its long and colorful history, and play it out once more.

I’m about to, though. I splay a hand across one of the ledger pages.

May 11th, 18XX: Tintagel, my father’s handwriting proclaims in black ink.

“Burleigh?” I ask. “Do you remember anything about my father going to Tintagel the year I was seven? Can you show it to me, if you do?”

All I expect is conversations—I’ve never seen Burleigh remembersomething that took place off the grounds, and don’t think it actually can. So I won’t be able to watch Papa’s excursions, but perhaps he said something of use before leaving or after returning home.

I wait. At first, nothing happens. No rippling ghosts appear from thin air. But then, everything goes suddenly and entirely dark. I wave a hand in front of my face and can’t see a thing.

“Burleigh?” I repeat. My own voice sounds strange and muffled. Panic begins to rise in my throat. I can feel the House’s attention churning restlessly around me, but there’s no loss of control yet. No mortar seeping cold into my skin.

After a moment, the darkness begins to fade, replaced by the morning light of a grey and overcast day. An overwhelming wave of vertigo hits me as I see Papa’s study, overlaid on top of my bedroom. Everything in it ripples and shimmers, until Burleigh’s light-on-water memory seems like reality and the solid presence of my room like a mirage. I blink and squint until at last, my mind accepts this strange duality and settles into Burleigh’s recollection even as my body remains cross-legged on the hearthrug.

The first person I see is Mama. Something in me twinges at the sight of her. She and Papa sit opposite each other on two armchairs drawn up by the study fire, but there might as well be a world between them. It’s easy to see they’re already at odds—she sits with her knees angled away, staring out a window. And Papa is withdrawn, closed off within himself, a map of the West Country spread out before him.

“I’ll be off again next week,” he says, after a long and agonizing silence.

Mama sighs. “And where are you going on the House’s behalf this time, George?”

She keeps her eyes fixed on the dim sky and lush grass of the lawns outside, rendered a ghostly blue by Burleigh’s memory.

Papa glances down at his map. “Tintagel first, I think. I’ll carry on down the coast for a few days afterward, search everything between there and Port Isaac. It feels a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack, though, without anything more concrete to go on yet.”

“Oh,” Mama says, and the single word is cold as ice.

My hands involuntarily ball into fists at my sides. I hate dredging up my family’s unhappiness. If it didn’t serve a purpose, I would never raise these particular ghosts.

“Why don’t you take the boy with you?” Mama says, and for the first time I notice Wyn. He’s crouched under my father’s desk with a blank book and a stub of pencil, sketching away.