Page 52 of A Treason of Thorns

We both fall silent. Burleigh is failing, and someone must stand in the breach until I manage to find the deed.

If I manage to find the deed.

I turn my attention back to Wyn’s drawings on the walls. There’s one of gulls flying over the shore that catches my eye. When I stepcloser to it, I notice odd marks on the waves and the gulls’ wings. Not marks, handwriting done in ink, on the opposite side of the paper.

“Do you mind?” I ask, gesturing to the picture.

“Look all you want,” Wyn says.

Removing the pins that hold the page to the wall, I flip it over.

There’s verse scrawled across it in an unfamiliar hand. The way they scan and flow reminds me of something—of the old House rhyme Papa used to sing to me as a little girl. But the words are all wrong. They’re more like instructions, and the back of my neck prickles as I read.

First, speak a binding

Second, wield a knife

Third, give your spirit

Fourth, give your life

Fifth, take in power

Sixth, take it all

Till your blood runs with mortar

Till your breath fills the walls

“Do you know what this is?” I ask Wyn, holding out the page. For a long moment, he’s absolutely silent, staring down at the paper.

“No,” he says, and I know he’s lying from the way he won’t meet my eyes. He’s never been able to bluff.

“What is it?” I press.

“I told you I don’t know. Just some old nonsense, on a scrap of paper I found years ago. Put it back.”

I frown at him. “I want to keep it. It could be important.”

“Suit yourself,” Wyn says.

But on our way back through the woods, there’s tension between us. It stretches on and on until we leave the forest and I push the sleeves of my rough fen blouse up, because the day is already warm and muggy. As I do, I hear Wyn take in a sharp breath.

“Violet Sterling, what happened to you?”

I glance at him in confusion. “What?”

In answer, he takes one of my hands and holds it up. It’s the first time he’s touched me when neither of us is working House magic, and even though we’re not entirely getting on, the feeling of Wyn’s skin on mine sends a shock through me.

But I see at once what he’s bothered about. Dark blue bruises have blossomed around my wrists, angry against the white of my skin. The slick pink mark that rings my arm just below my left hand is more prominent than ever.

“Oh,” I say, trying for lightness and sounding a little forced. “Falmouth wasn’t pleased with how things went here. We had a very... animated conversation, last night when I was leaving the Red Shilling.”

I’ve never seen Wyn look so fierce. “Is he still there?”

“No, he’s gone to Bath, don’t worry about it,” I say.

“Are you certain?” Wyn asks.