Page 36 of A Treason of Thorns

“Wait,” she says, her voice soft with pity. “Can I find you a room in Burleigh Halt, or Taunton perhaps? I’ll pay up front for as long you’d like to stay—a few weeks, half a year even. And leave some money for personal effects, a new wardrobe. You ought to have a fresh start after this.”

Wyn fixes her with a long and searching look.

“No,” he says at last. “I’m staying here. I promised George I would, till Violet gets back.”

“It’s been a long time.” If Esperanza’s voice was gentle before, it’sa whisper now. “She might—she might not come.”

“You don’t know Violet. She’ll come,” Wyn says with absolute certainty, and starts up the stairs.

Darkness folds around me as the memory fades. Only once it’s gone do I hear a faint knocking at the door.

“Vi, are you alright in there?” Wyn’s voice is rough with sleep. I get up at once, crossing the room and opening the door for him. He stands on the threshold in a nightshirt and loose linen trousers, blinking like a peevish owl. “I could hear myself talking. Bit of an unnerving way to wake up. Is Burleigh behaving?”

“It was remembering something,” I say quickly, to hide the fierce wave of relief that hits me at the sight of Wyn’s present self. I’m overcome by a sudden and irrational urge to stuff him into my airing cupboard in the hope that nothing dreadful will ever happen to him again. “I asked it to.”

Wyn shuts his mouth, swallowing a yawn. “Youaskedit to?”

I suppose it’s time to come clean. “Yes. That’s how I’m hoping to find the deed. Mira said both Burleigh and Papa knew where it was, so instead of asking about it outright, I’m looking through Papa’s ledger for hints as to where he’d gone looking for it, and then asking the House if it remembers anything coming up in conversation about those journeys. It’s easier on Burleigh.”

The floor rumbles under our feet, but no House magic nips at me. I watch as the last remnants of sleep-dullness vanish from Wyn’s eyes.

“That’s very clever, Violet,” he says. “And it’s working?”

I shrug. “So far. That’s what I’m doing now. I just wish I knew this isn’t a fool’s errand, though—who’s to say the king hasn’t moved Burleigh’s deed since Papa found where he’d hidden it?”

Three things happen at once as I ask the question. Everything goes dark. The crushing weight of the House’s full attention fixes on us. And mortar freezes my fingertips.

“Oh, Burleigh, no,” I beg. “I wasn’t asking you to show me anything, I was just wondering out loud.”

But the House, eager to please now it’s found a way to communicate with me, plunges us into a wavering version of Papa’s study. The only solid things in the world are Wyn and me.

“Vi, give me your hands,” Wyn says, sounding half panicked.

“Not yet,” I say, and step forward, because my father is sitting in one of the study’s wingback chairs, with shackles around his ankles. It must be the night before his House arrest began—the traveling court arrived at midmorning, and Papa had been found guilty of treason by early afternoon. Now all that remains is for His Majesty to carry out the sentence.

A few days’ stubble shadows my father’s jaw and there’s a pale, haggard look about him. I cross this ghostly version of the study, barely noticing the silent guards standing by the door.

“Papa,” I whisper, kneeling at his side. “I’m here. Look at me.”

But he can’t hear a word I say. That is, perhaps, the cruelest cut of all—knowing my father can be remembered so perfectly by the House, yet never live again. I will never have a chance to tell him what I couldn’t the day I left—that I loved him. That he was, in spite of the distance between us, everything I’ve ever wanted to be.

“A game, George?” the king’s laconic voice asks, and it’s only then that I notice him sitting in the shadows behind Papa’s desk. “Something to while away the hours until dawn, and the beginning of your sentence?”

My father says nothing, only keeps his eyes fixed on the floor,and the spark of fear in his gaze puts a dreadful tightness in my throat, even as mortar creeps through my veins.

The king sits forward. Lamplight picks out the lean contours of his face. “Perhaps you need the right stakes to stir your enthusiasm. We could play for... your freedom?”

When Papa glances up, there’s vain hope written across every line of him.

“Don’t let him bait you,” I say, tears pricking at my eyes.

“Vi,please.” Wyn’s two steps behind me, holding out his hands. “Don’t let Burleigh hurt you.”

“You and Violet,” the king offers my father, “safe together on a ship to anywhere you’d like to go, so long as you leave England behind. I can’t very well have a treasonous Caretaker running around the island, now can I? But you could make a new life for yourself and your daughter.”

Papa nods. “Deal the cards.”

They play écarté, as there’s only two of them, and my heart sinks. It’s never been Papa’s best game. The Sterlings have always been stronger on sacrifice than strategy. But Papa’s attention is fixed on the game and he takes several tricks when the king’s focus drifts. I can’t look away, even as I feel Wyn take my hands in his own, and the mortar running into me turns toward him.