Page 39 of A Treason of Thorns

“I don’t know. It’s like walking down a corridor that’s endlesslylong. It has no start and no end, and all the doors are shut. But when I open them, there’s nothing behind them.”

“Nothing? You mean the rooms are empty?”

“No.” A worried crease forms between his eyebrows as he tries to explain. “There are no rooms. I open the doors and there’s nothing. No darkness, no floors, no ceilings, no walls. Just—nothing. I don’t know, I’m not explaining very well, am I?”

A shiver runs through me, from the crown of my head to the base of my spine. “No, but it sounds terrifying.”

“Maybe it was at first, but I’m used to it now.”

“Wyn?” I say.

“Violet?”

I swallow. The words I’m about to speak rest dry and sharp-edged in my throat. “I think you should go away after all. Away from Burleigh House, I mean. It isn’t safe here.”

“Are you going?”

I bite anxiously at one already mangled fingernail. “You know I can’t.”

“Then I can’t, either. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

The sky out beyond the back woods is flushing pink behind the trees and Wyn shuts his eyes.

“What did you do while you were on the fens, Vi?” he asks, and there’s something a little desperate in his voice. “Tell me about it.”

“I went fishing every day,” I say with a smile. “Not with a pole like we used in the stream, but with nets and spears. I dug for clams and cut peat and thatch with Jed. I salted fish with Mira and learned to make ginger biscuits when it stormed. Or at least, she tried to teach me to make ginger biscuits, but I was never very good at it.”

Wyn laughs. “She tried to teach me to make ginger biscuits before all of you left, but I wasn’t any good at it, either.”

“What did you do while I was gone?” I ask. “Not the bad things, just the ordinary ones.”

“Fixed up the House. Read some books. Grew parsnips,” Wyn says. “We were alright the first few years—the House kept the gardens going for us, but the last couple they needed a great deal of coaxing. Almost everything failed except the parsnips.”

“Oh dear,” I say. “You never really liked parsnips.”

Wyn opens his eyes and looks at me wryly. “I hate them now.”

I bite my lip in an attempt to keep a straight face, but can’t quite manage it.

“It’s alright,” Wyn says. “It is a bit funny. Of all the things, it had to be parsnips.”

The first few rays of sunlight spill over the trees and across Wyn’s face. For a moment I’m breathless, because I know him. I know that half-bashful, quietly pleased expression. Without thinking, I reach out and put a finger to his chin, just as I would have done when we were children.

“Hello,” I say. “I recognize you.”

Burleigh rumbles ominously beneath us, and at once, Wyn’s face grows severe and closed off again.

“I’ve got work to do downstairs,” he mutters, and with a clatter of tiles, disappears back into the House.

13

“AND THEN I SAYS TO HIM I SAYS, WHERE’LL I FIND A RAMto cover the flock at this time of year?”

I will admit, I’m not listening to a word Old John Howard has to say as I hurry back and forth behind the counter at the Shilling, pulling pints and setting them down before uncommonly thirsty county folk. To begin with, there’s the matter of my head, which is spinning after missing a night of sleep out on the roof with Wyn. And—well, that’s the end of it. I’m worn to tatters, and everything around me is a blur.

“George Sterling’s girl! Another round over here!”

Heaving a sigh, I grab a tray and fill it with mugs, edging my way across the room to a table where half a dozen tenant farmers are playing at dice. Esperanza and Alfred are in a booth up against the wall, sitting side by side rather than opposite one another, and poring over stacks of old documents. I don’t know how they can possibly think with all the noise down here, but neither of them seems to mind.