Page 40 of A Treason of Thorns

The thought of Wyn and his strange way of working Housemagic is still plaguing me, like the beginnings of a headache I’m pushing through but can’t quite shake, so I stop at Alfred and Espie’s table for a moment.

“Any progress?” I ask.

Alfred squints up at me. “Hm. Not particularly.”

Esperanza drops her chin onto one hand and gives me a pleading look. “Violet, I’m bored. This is so dull. Save me. I’m worlds better at digging up information by flirting at parties.”

“Just be a little more methodical,” Alfred suggests. “When you find references to—”

“No.” Esperanza holds a finger to his lips, shaking her head. “No, Alfred. We’re not all librarians at heart.”

“You can wait tables if you’re really that bored,” I tell Espie. “We could certainly use the help.”

She brightens considerably at the suggestion until Alfred puts a warning hand on her sleeve. “Espie. Darling. You’re the princess of Wales. If you start serving ale in a backwater inn, it’ll be front page news across England by the day after tomorrow and then your father will come down to lecture you. Is that really what you want?”

Esperanza slumps, defeated. “No, you’re right. Sorry, Vi.”

“It’s fine. But I wanted to ask Alfred something.”

Alfred takes off his spectacles and tucks them into his breast pocket, looking up at me. “I’m entirely at your disposal.”

“Another pint, George Sterling’s girl!” someone shouts from the counter. I pointedly ignore them.

“Have you ever heard of a person working House magic without a key, but it doesn’t cause them any harm? Or perhaps it does but it starts with their mind rather than their body?” I ask.

Espie sits bolt upright. “Violet Sterling, are you doing things at Burleigh House that you shouldn’t? I swear, if you’re working House magic, I’ll strangle you with my best jet beads; you know how dangerous that is.”

“No,” I say quickly. “Or at least, not on purpose. A little by accident, but that’s all.”

“It doesn’t ring any bells, but I’ll take a look,” Alfred promises.

I turn aside to head back to the counter but the door swings open and a party of travelers strides in. There’s a gentleman and two liveried menservants, and one of the servants goes at once to the counter to have a private word with Frey. In the heat of the common room, the gentleman sheds his long riding coat and holds it out to me.

“Here, tavern girl. Take this for me and see it’s kept somewhere safe.”

He looks familiar. There’s something niggling at the back of my mind, half memory, half warning. And then I glance at Alfred and Espie.

Alfred’s gone, vanished like smoke on a windy day. I catch sight of him at the edge of my vision, suddenly tucked in among the dice-playing farmers at a nearby table. Esperanza, meanwhile, is pale beneath the golden hue of her skin, a fixed smile on her face.

The gentleman walks over to her at once, and Espie holds out a hand.

“Lord Falmouth,” she says as he kisses her offered fingertips. “What a surprise. I wasn’t expecting you till next week. Papa said you were in Bournemouth, or somewhere, and that you couldn’t possibly be here till June to keep an eye on things.”

“I left early,” Falmouth says, his voice low and gravelly as he slides into the booth across from Espie. I dislike him at once. It’s Falmouth who blew a hole in Burleigh’s wall, Falmouth who spoke so dismissively of Wyn in Burleigh’s memory. What’s more, he’s looking at Esperanza as if she’s a frosted cake and he hasn’t eaten since morning.

I step closer to the table and look pointedly at the princess, letting my voice go decidedly West Country. “Is there anything I can get for you, Miss? Another cup of tea, perhaps?”

A muzzle for the wolf who just walked in?

Espie gathers up the papers she and Alfred were looking over and hands them to me. “Just take those upstairs, won’t you?”

I drop a curtsy for good measure. “If you need anything, Miss, I’ll be over at the counter. Just give a shout.”

“I meant it when I said be careful with the coat,” Falmouth warns me. “It had better make it up to my room without incident or I’ll take its worth out of you.”

“Are we having a problem over here? I’m the proprietress of the Shilling, and if there’s trouble, I’m the one who ought to know about it,” Frey says smoothly, appearing out of the ether. She gives Falmouth a thin smile—the sort I already know she reserves for patrons who are bad news.

“None at all,” Falmouth says. “I was just asking your serving girl to take extra care with my things.”