Page 33 of A Treason of Thorns

The truth is that the Great Houses of England are in decline, sickening beneath the bindings they’ve been placed under. As best I understand it, the binding they’ve been placed under prevents them from ever really ridding themselves of all their magic. A Caretaker helps, to be sure, but can channel only so much of a House’s power away. And as old magic lingers, it goes bad, tainting the rest of it, like poison in the blood.

Only the return of the deeds may restore the Houses’ health. I say may because it is no sure thing, and all my efforts on Burleigh’s behalf may be too little, too late. They call me a great Caretaker, but I am no greater than any other, and it took me far too long to see the truth, Violet. That in taking from the Great Houses and binding them to our purposes, we meddled with something we should not have, and perhaps signed their death warrant.

Should I fail to save Burleigh, it will someday fall to youto finish what I started. I know you love our House, Vi—I haven’t only kept myself apart from you because the business of a Caretaker occupies me so often. Part of my reasoning for keeping a distance between us was so that you’d learn with your heart as well as your mind to put Burleigh first. Perhaps this was unkind, even cruel, of me. I’ve done many things for our House I would not have, under any other circumstances. Many things I’m not proud of. And I think, my dear, that if you do set both your heart and mind upon it, you will not just be a great Caretaker. You will eclipse me in every way, and do the things I could not do, be the person I could not be.

Things are coming to a head, and soon I will either succeed or fail in everything I have set my hand to. Jed and Mira will look after you, should I fare badly. There are precious few other people you can rely on—Frey at the Red Shilling, if you can win her over. The Westons and Sterlings have worked alongside each other for centuries, and it’s a tie their family won’t throw over lightly. I’ve asked Bertie Weston, a colleague of mine, to take you in should you find yourself without a home. Queen Isabella is a friend, too, and one I’d trust with your life. Beyond that, look to yourself, Vi, and our House.

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you. You’re my very heart and soul. But I am a Caretaker, and I pray I’ve taught you well what that means.

All my love,

Your father, George Sterling

PS Tell Wyn I’m forever grateful to him. Tell him it isn’t enough, but it’s all I have to offer.

When I glance up from the letter, having read through it twice, Esperanza and Alfred are both watching me.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“My family name is Weston,” Alfred says.

I fix him with a narrow look. “Yes, the House showed me a memory of someone called Bertie. Your father, was he? And the letter says your family was to take me in if anything happened to Papa. What went wrong?”

Alfred shakes his head apologetically. “Yes, Albert Weston was my father. But he died not long after George was placed under House arrest. Heart failure. My mother couldn’t bring herself to go through his things until several years after his death, and by then I was on the Continent. That letter only fell into my hands a month or two ago, along with instructions to give it to you if any trouble befell George and your House. I’d have found you and delivered it earlier if I’d known it existed.”

“Well, better late than never, I suppose,” I say, staring down at Papa’s handwriting.

“Let me get you a raspberry tart,” Esperanza offers. “It’ll make you feel less grim. Alfie, would you mind?”

Alfred disappears and returns in a moment with plates of finger sandwiches and little sausage rolls and fruit tarts, which he sets out while Esperanza watches approvingly. He stops at her place last, and she catches his hand, pressing a kiss to his palm.

“Darling,” Esperanza says. “I know you never thought you’d hear me say this, but I want you to talk about Great Houses.”

Alfred gives her a dubious look. “Truly? What if I get carried away?”

“Well, I’ll have to cut you off. But I have faith in you. Even you, Alfred Weston, can be concise.”

I bite into a sausage roll, swallowing past a pained, empty feeling that’s opened up in my chest since reading my father’s words.

“Does he know a lot about the Great Houses?” I ask.

“He’s literally writing the book on the subject.” Esperanza carefully picks several blackberries off her fruit tart. “Vi, it’s the most tedious thing I’ve ever heard. He’s three volumes in and it’s supposed to be eight when he’s finished. I have him read it to me when I can’t sleep.”

“Yes, well, it’s a scholarly work, Espie, not a novel,” Alfred says dryly.

“That’s how we met each other.” The princess gives his hand a conciliatory pat. “While he was on the Continent, doing research among the ruins of the Great Houses that have failed there.”

I frown. “I’ve never heard of any Great Houses on the Continent that failed.”

“Unfortunately you have,” Alfred says. “You just didn’t know what you were hearing about at the time. Do you know where the first of Europe’s Great Houses was bound?”

I shake my head.

“In the Italian countryside. At the foothills of a mountain named Vesuvius. They called the House Arx Oriens and made it a shrine, with an oracle in place of a Caretaker. Oriens had been bound for nearly five hundred years by the time it failed, causing the mountain to erupt. But Italy has many bound Shrine Houses now, and very few people will speak of the House that once stood outside Pompeii.

“There were others like Arx Oriens. Casa de Descans, in Catalonia, which failed in 1428 and caused an earthquake. The failure of the Dutch Zeelicht Landhuis in 1570 was followed by a tidal wave. Great Houses die as they live—with immense power.”

My mind’s already racing through everything I know of Europe and England’s history.