Page 46 of A Treason of Thorns

I concentrate on nothing but the rhythm of my breath and my own footsteps, because his words are poison, and more than that, a lie. I saw Burleigh’s memory. I know it was Esperanza who came and did the decent thing after my father’s death.

Breathe in, and out. In and out. One foot forward. Now the next.

The sound of Wyn’s ax splits the air every few moments, like gunfire. I find it oddly comforting, knowing he’s nearby. Knowing I have an unquestioning ally, should I need him.

As we walk to the empty and derelict stables, daisies sprout and spring up through the gravel along my path. Light beams through the threatening clouds and follows me, so that I move in a halo of gold, like a saint or a Madonna. I’m glad of Burleigh’s obvious attention, just as I’m glad of the sound of Wyn’s ax. It’s a reassurance, that forceful as Lord Falmouth may be, I’m not entirely alone. I tend to the horse while Falmouth watches. His men are entirely silent, never making eye contact or speaking a word. They’re more skittish than the horse is, and I can only imagine what sort of master the duke must be to make them seem so wary.

Falmouth orders his servants to remain in the stable, and the two of us hurry into the conservatory as fat raindrops begin to fall from the sky. They drum against the glass, and the sound lulls me. When I shiver, a fire springs to life in the grate and I draw closer to warm my hands. We’d be warmer in the study, but brambles are beginning to take over the corners, and the conservatory is still unmarked by Burleigh’s malaise.

“His Majesty did say the House is oddly attentive to you,” Falmouth remarks from where he stands looking out at the rainy grounds. “And I’m prepared to let you stay here permanently in some capacity. As a scullery maid, perhaps.”

The fire leaps higher, licking at the chimney in a sudden flare of flame.

“Do you have much experience with Great Houses?” I ask, because he must think I plan to step aside at summer’s end.“Burleigh will need a great deal of attention and a very deft touch if it’s to recover from its present state.”

Lord Falmouth turns and looks me up and down. The back of my neck prickles. I don’t like his proprietary air at all—standing there, you’d think he owns everything around him. “Miss Sterling, the king and I are of one mind in this. Burleigh’s been coddled by your family for centuries. What it needs is to be broken. A firm hand would do wonders for this place, and if it’s really that obstinate, well. It’s only one House. There are others, should Burleigh choose to go down in flames.”

“It’s not a matter of choice,” I tell him sharply. “Burleigh is ailing because of the binding that was placed on it. It was ailing before my father’s arrest, and would still be sickening even if I had the key in hand at this moment.”

I’m not sure if Burleigh is feeding off my agitation, or if I’m channeling the House’s anger. But the fire snaps and roars and rain lashes at the windows.

Please, Burleigh, I beg silently.Calm yourself.

But inside my own chest, my heart beats at a furious pace.

Falmouth pays the House no mind. Instead, he crosses the room and stands next to me at the hearth, far closer than I’d like. I grip the mantel with one hand, both Burleigh and I needing the gesture of support.

“Then perhaps,” Falmouth says softly, “I’d better go back to His Majesty tomorrow, and tell him a torch is all Burleigh House is good for.”

Outside, wind shrieks in the eaves of the House, and the ground trembles beneath our feet. Fool that he is, Falmouth ignores it.

“Hush, Burleigh,” I murmur beneath my breath, running a hand along the mantel. “Settle yourself, my love.”

But the House’s distress builds and builds, until I want to crawl out of my skin. Lord Falmouth, who can obviously feel nothing of it, looks at me as if I’m about to fall into hysterics. Perhaps I am.

“Burleigh, you mustn’t—” I begin, but the words are drowned out by shattering glass as vines burst into the conservatory from outside. They twine around the Duke of Falmouth’s wrists and ankles, pinning him fast and driving him to his knees. I stumble under the sudden weight of the House’s full attention bearing down on the two of us.

“The king will hear of this,” the duke chokes out furiously as Burleigh drags him away, back through the garden and toward the front gate. It’s raining still, and before long Lord Falmouth is plastered in mud. I follow along, pleading with Burleigh to stop, but the House rages on. Falmouth’s servants run out of the stable, drawn by the commotion. They stop a few paces back, not wanting to interfere.

“Do you think for a moment that His Majesty will let you stay on once he hears Burleigh has gone wild?” Lord Falmouth carries on. “The king’s army will be here in three days, with torches and kerosene.”

The duke’s words are like a knife in my heart as Burleigh dumps him in the roadway. But then, in an instant, Burleigh’s attention swings away from us and toward something else. The knife twists.

“Go!” I bark at Falmouth’s servants, who scurry out just before the brambles twine shut, thorny vines sealing the House’s grounds more securely than any lock ever could.

“What about my horse?” Falmouth calls after me.

“You’ll have to do without him,” I shout back over one shoulder. “I’ve got more pressing things to take care of.”

The clouds above have grown darker since Burleigh’s fit of temper, and rain continues to pour down. Something hits the back of my neck with an unpleasant spatter, and when I reach instinctively to wipe at it, my hand comes away gritty and coated in wet mortar. The sound and substance of the rainfall changes, growing softer, fuller, more sinister, as mortar begins to coat the grass and clog the puddles. I’ve never seen such a thing, not in all my father’s time as Caretaker, and fear eats away at my insides as I hurry around the House.

Even as I run through the overgrown vegetable garden, my fear turns to a sickening premonition. There’s nothing to be heard but the damp, thick plashing of falling mortar. Wyn’s ax has gone silent.

He’s still near the woodshed, propped against a mound of neatly stacked logs. Wyn looks for all the world as if he could be sleeping. But when I shake him frantically by the shoulders, he doesn’t wake.

“Wyn. Come on, Wyn. Open your eyes.”

The full weight of Burleigh’s attention is still bent on him, and the unnatural rain hasn’t slackened yet. I sink my hands into a slurry of mud and mortar.