Page 53 of A Treason of Thorns

I give him a thin smile. “Frey ran him off with a pistol. I don’t expect he’ll be back anytime soon.”

My assurances sound hollow and unconvincing, even to me. I haven’t told Wyn about the deal I struck with the king—that if Burleigh survives the summer but I’m unable to find the deed, Falmouth will take over the House. And I’m certainly not about to bring it up now, when I’ve no idea what I’ll do if things come to that.

We walk inside, through the ruins of the conservatory, shattered glass crunching like gravel under our feet. I ought to clear this up—being in disrepair is hard on Burleigh. But there are so many things that need doing. The slate tiles on the guest wing roof are so sparse it looks as if my House has contracted some sort of architectural mange. In spite of Wyn’s best efforts, the dining hall is still growing cracks like a tree grows leaves. The ballroom’s still split down the middle in the wake of my unfortunate accident with Burleigh’s House magic. And everywhere, ivy creeps in at the windows and rooflines. The damage weighs on me constantly.

“When do you finish at the Shilling tonight?” Wyn asks, putting a hand on my elbow to steady me as I nearly trip on an overturned ottoman.

“Usually a bit after two.”

“I’ll be there at two, then, to walk you home.”

“Oh, Wyn,” I protest. “Don’t be ridiculous. Falmouth is gone, and I don’t—”

“Let me do this,” he says. “You may not mind now, but you’ll probably want company tonight. Just trust me, won’t you? I know.”

I relent. “Alright, have it your way.”

Wyn holds the conservatory door open and looks back at the shambles behind us as I walk through.

“Got my work cut out for me today,” he says. “But first let’s find Mira and see if she’ll feed us. I’m starving—haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday morning.”

Wyn grins at me, and for a brief moment, seems like an ordinary boy—the sort of person he might have become if he weren’t tied to my family and my House.

“I’m fighting with Mira,” I say, moping a bit because I like itwhen Wyn pities me. “I expect I’d be fighting with Jed, too, if he didn’t leave before dawn and go to bed while I’m still out. They don’t agree with me about Burleigh.”

“Well, I’m not fighting with you,” Wyn says.

“Really?” I ask hopefully. Perhaps he’s already forgotten about the strange scrap of verse tucked away in my pocket.

“Really.” Wyn tries and fails to hide a smile. “I don’t ever fight with you. I just have temporary differences of opinion.”

“That’s the same thing,” I mutter.

“No, it isn’t. If I were fighting with you, I’d be cross. I’m never cross with you.”

“I’m cross withyousometimes,” I point out. “What makes you so much nicer than I am?”

I slow my pace, and Wyn walks on a few steps.

“I’ve always been nicer than you are,” he says. “Everyone knows that.”

When Wyn notices I’m not keeping up, he stops and turns, waiting patiently. I put my head a little to one side and look at him. At first when I came home, seeing Wyn was a bit of a wrench. I kept expecting to see the child I grew up with. But it’s not like that anymore. Right now, I don’t want to see anyone else, just him, as he is in this moment.

And blood and mortar, I’m glad he came back.

“What are you looking at?” Wyn asks with a puzzled frown.

“Nothing,” I say, catching up with him. “Nothing at all.”

18

MIDWAY THROUGH MY SHIFT AT THE SHILLING, ALFREDcomes downstairs, looking gloomy and a bit at a loose end without Esperanza. He occupies their usual table, covering every inch of its surface with papers and notebooks, ledgers and ancient-looking texts.

Alfred only ever takes tea, I know that by now, and the second time I stop at the table to freshen his pot, I sit down opposite him for a moment.

“Have you ever seen this bit of verse before?” I ask, taking Wyn’s drawing from my pocket and sliding it across the table wrong-side up so Alfred can see the handwriting on the back.

He squints down at the page through his spectacles and goes suddenly pale. “Where did you get this?”