Page 31 of A Treason of Thorns

He opens one eye and peers up at me. “Look, I only did House magic today because you started working it first. In fact, I was leaving Burleigh House. So can we not talk about this anymore? I’d like to go to sleep. Yououghtto go to sleep. And Burleigh needs to calm down.”

Wyn says the last pointedly, at the walls and the listening air. Burleigh takes the high road, and doesn’t respond.

I get to my feet and shake my head at Wyn, who turns over so that he’s facing the wall.

“You don’t have to sleep in the hallway, you know,” I tell him. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Well, I don’t fit in the cupboard anymore,” he mutters. “And I don’t believe you.”

Heaving a sigh, I retreat to the sanctuary of my own room and climb into bed, curling up on one side. I’m all mixed up, torn between elation over the progress Burleigh and I have made in only one night and discomfort over Wyn’s presence outside my door. No, not his presence—the reason for it. I used to look after him, and now things seem to be the other way around. I don’t like it. It makes me feel like a burden, and I’ve always hated to inconvenience anyone else.

And yet. There’s something in me that rests easier, knowing Wyn is nearby. For almost a year after we moved to the fens, I’d wake in the middle of the night gasping, overwhelmed by an urge to look for him though I knew he was the length of the countryaway. If being with Burleigh feels like I’m home again, being with Wyn feels like I’m whole once more. He must feel it, too, at least a little. Why else would he have come back?

I stare at the closed door for what seems like a long time, thinking about getting up to open it. But before I can, I fall into a dark and dreamless sleep.

11

I DID NOT EXPECT TO BE OUT IN THE LANE, BRISKLY WALKINGaway from Burleigh House after two days at home, and yet here I am. Nothing’s as I thought it would be. Not the House, with its endless, all-encompassing pain, not Wyn, and certainly not me. I expected some sort of instinct to take over and guide me once I got home, letting me know exactly what Burleigh needs. It hasn’t, and so I fall back on what I know—that Burleigh likes to be looked after in the ordinary way of houses. Paint and nails and plaster always cheer it, but they also cost money, and I haven’t got any. It’s not just Burleigh His Majesty owns—following Papa’s arrest, the Crown seized all his assets.

I need to earn, just like the rest of my odd little family. Jed’s already off to his farm labor. Mira’s at her washbasin. And when I left Burleigh, the sound of a saw was already ringing through halls, meaning Wyn was busy, too. I’m no use at House repairs like Wyn’s clearly turned out to be, but I can keep him in supplies.

Anything to bolster Burleigh’s flagging spirits.

Ripping a switch free from the hedgerow, I snap it at theinoffensive bushes bordering the lane. Songbirds burst from the hedge in an outcry of feathers and wing their way across the fields. Watching them go sets guilt twisting in my belly. I don’t know what a single one of them is called, while back on the fens, I could tell even a female reed bunting from a corn bunting on sight.

As I carry on down the lane toward the small village of Burleigh Halt, I look to the land with a Caretaker’s eye, and don’t like what I see. Suspiciously grey and stony leaves sprout in the hedgerows. Some of the sheep in the fields have a downcast way about them, their heads drooping and their sides rising and falling only with an effort. Half a dozen songbirds lie dead in the bottom of a ditch. Burleigh House is leaking magic and mortar into the countryside like gangrene, unable to hold back all of its festering power.

But I knew Burleigh was struggling before I came back. I doubt the king would ever have allowed me home otherwise. All I need is for my beleaguered House to hang on until I can find the deed. One day at a time, Burleigh my love. We’ll take this one day at a time.

It’s not just the House that’s ailing this morning, though. I’m cold in spite of the warm weather, my legs weak as water and occasional chills running through me. It’s the aftermath of the mortar, I know—Wyn may have managed to siphon some of it off, but he didn’t get it all—and I think I’d better be discreet in how often I ask the House to show me its memories, in case I strike a nerve.

At last I round a bend in the lane and arrive at the little village of Burleigh Halt. There isn’t much to it. Just a row of pretty stone houses lining the main street, a market square that’s jammed with carts and wagons on Saturday mornings, a single shop that in theway of village vendors sells just about everything, and the Red Shilling.

After a moment’s indecision, I walk through the tavern door.

Small windows make for a moody, dimly lit interior. Tables and booths litter the front room, and a Black woman with hair smoothed and pulled back in a tidy knot stands behind the counter, polishing glasses. My stomach’s gone flighty with nerves at my sudden decision to come in here, but I walk up and perch on a stool in front of her. She crooks an eyebrow at me.

“Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I say. “I’ve only just arrived in town, and I’m looking for work.”

The woman shakes her head. “In that case, no, I can’t help. Try day labor, out on one of the bigger farms.”

“Thought you might say so, but it was worth asking.” I slide down off the stool. “Good day to you, ma’am.”

I’m nearly at the door when she calls me back. “Girl. You look like you’ve been on the fens, judging by your clothes. I’ve got a brother out fen way.”

“I lived outside Thiswick the last few years,” I answer carefully. “Did some fishing, cut some thatch. Whatever would make me a bit of coin. I’m not proud, and I work hard.”

I quell the urge to bite at a fingernail as I wait for her response.

“Oh, don’t string her along, Frey,” a strange voice says from a dim corner of the public room. I twist my head around and notice two figures I’d overlooked sitting in the shadows at a booth. There’s a young man, dressed like a gentleman and impeccably tidy, but it was his companion who spoke in a girl’s clear tones. She’s all inblack from head to toe, with her back to me.

“You know you’re going to hire her,” the girl says without turning around. “If only for a chance to say you had George Sterling’s daughter in your employ.”

Frey, the innkeeper, sets her glass and polishing rag down.

“So you’re George’s girl come home.” There’s no surprise behind the words, and I expect she knew all along. When I nod, she gives me an appraising look.