Page 47 of A Treason of Thorns

“Burleigh House,” I plead, “please stop. Please let him be.”

Resistance and frustration leak up through my skin.

“I’m begging you,” I say to my House. “If you’ve ever loved me, turn away from him now.”

Ever so slowly, Burleigh’s focus begins to shift. The clouds thin little by little, bit by bit, and finally dissipate.

“Wyn?”

His hands are cold. I chafe them between my own, but he still doesn’t wake. Glancing over one shoulder in an agony, I calculate the distance to the kitchen door. It’s a hundred yards away, and though I hate to leave Wyn, I can’t move him on my own.

“Don’t move,” I breathe. “I’m coming back for you straightaway. Burleigh, if you touch him again, I’ll never forgive you.”

The House rumbles, but a single beam of sunlight cuts through the cloud cover and spills over Wyn’s unconscious form.

Scrambling to my feet, I bolt across the kitchen garden and in through the door.

“Mira?” I shout. “Mira, where are you?”

There’s no sign of her. I rattle through the halls, calling her name as I go. At last I hear a faint answer and hurry toward the sound of her voice.

Mira’s in the conservatory and, as soon as I enter the room, descends upon me, taking my face in her hands and looking me over as if I’m likely to have lost an arm.

“Violet, are you alright?” she asks in a panic. “What happened in here?”

“His Majesty sent the Duke of Falmouth to look in on the House,” I say mechanically. “He was awful, and Burleigh lost its temper. The House dragged him off the grounds, but then it started losing control of its magic. There was mortar, raining from the sky, and Wyn tried to stop it—he did House magic, but now I can’t wake him. Mira, please, I need your help.”

It’s only as I speak of what’s happened that the true horror of it strikes me. Brutish Lord Falmouth and Burleigh’s rage and Wyn, still where I left him.

“Where’s Wyn?” Mira asks as I press a hand to my mouth and tears spill from my eyes. “Vi. Where is he?”

“Out by the woodshed,” I say, pulling myself together. “We’ve got to get him inside.”

Puddles of mortar are already drying out along the garden path. The weeds are flattened by it, borne down by the weight of that unnatural rain. Everything smells like damp, cold stone.

And when we come out in front of the woodshed, my heart jackknifes in my chest. There’s no sign of Wyn.

“He was just here,” I say, casting about us. “I swear, Mira. Where could he have gone?”

Mira has two fingers to her temple, as if her head aches.

“Has Wyn done House magic before?” she asks slowly.

I bite my lip and look down at the mortar-slick ground. “Yes.”

“Haveyoudone House magic since we got back? Violet Helena Sterling, I expect the truth from you.”

I’ve never seen Mira so stern before.

“... Not on purpose,” I answer weakly.

“Which is a yes. Get inside and pack your bag, young lady. We’re leaving.”

“What?” I gasp. “Mira, you can’t—”

“I can think of two things that might have happened to that boy,” she says, cutting me off. “Either he realized this place is a danger to him, and left like he planned to at first, or—”

“Or what?” I cross my arms and scowl.