Page 54 of A Treason of Thorns

“I found it at the House,” I say.

“Forget about it,” Alfred says, burying his nose in a book once more.

I reach across the table and pull the book downward, so he can’t hide behind it. “You and Wyn are both being very cagey about this,and it’s really not accomplishing what you intend. It’s my House, Alfred. I have a right to know what this means.”

He gives me a pained look. “Esperanza would kill me if she found out I told you.”

“Then she never has to know,” I say.

“I don’t like keeping secrets from Espie.” Alfred sounds disgruntled, and I give him my firmest look.

“I don’t like having a House that’sdying.”

“Oh, very well.” Alfred rifles through his assortment of documents and pulls an extremely old book toward us. As he leafs through it, I can see that all the pages are hand-lettered in faded ink, and the binding made of some sort of cured animal skin. Though I can make out most of the spellings, the language is unfamiliar.

Alfred gestures to a section of text and I shake my head. “I can’t read it. What is it?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s an Anglo-Saxon text, from my namesake, Alfred the Great’s, reign. That dates it to nearly two hundred years before the Great Houses were bound. Do you see this?” He points to a few indented lines. “That’s your verse, more or less. More, really; it’s almost identical. It’s a set of instructions that explain how a person can be bound to a Great House. We call it a binding rhyme, those of us who’ve made a study of the Houses.”

I frown. “Why would anyone need to bind themselves to a Great House, especially if the Houses hadn’t even been bound by William the Deedwinner yet?”

“There are two stories here,” Alfred says, overcoming the reluctance that’s obviously warring with his chronic desire to discuss obscure points of House history. “One’s about a House in the Scottish Highlands—it’s not called a House in the text, though; theycall it a witchcroft. According to this book, it was incredibly old, older than anything else in those parts, and began to fail. It needed new land, and a fresh start. So the man who tended it at the time—call him what you like, a priest, a shaman, a Caretaker—bound himself to the croft. He gave it his blood and bones and breath and brought it to Yorkshire, where it eventually became Ripley Castle. Fascinating.”

“And the other story?” I ask.

“Hold up.” Alfred turns a few pages. “Alright, here it is. The chronicler talks about a place in Exmoor, near Withypool. He says there was a strange village called Burgl?can, or ‘the town that springs up.’ And the people who lived there? They were called Stiorlings—fromstioran, meaning to guide and direct. Burgl?can had been around for ages, too, but seemed to be alright until a group of Danes came inland and tried to raid the village. The raiders just... died, suddenly, without warning or violence, and the chronicler says a grey substance sprang from their ears and their eyes and their noses. After that, Burgl?can goes into a swift decline, until one of the Stiorlings binds herself to the place and relocates it.”

“To the Blackdown Hills,” I say.

“That’s right,” Alfred says. “To the Blackdown Hills, where I would assume it became Burleigh House.”

“And we became the Sterlings.”

“Exactly.”

“What happened to the woman who moved Burleigh?” I ask, leaning forward. “And to the man who moved the Scottish House?” Excitement thrums through me. “Could I move Burleigh again, to give it a new beginning?”

Perhaps I won’t have any need to find the elusive deed after all.Perhaps there’s a simpler answer to all my problems.

Alfred looks down at the book in front of him. “They died. There are other stories from the Continent and it’s always the same. You can save a Great House by binding yourself to it, but it’s a death sentence.”

“Oh,” I say, my voice small. “That’s why Esperanza wouldn’t want you to tell me. She thinks I’d—”

“Yes,” Alfred answers. “That’s what she’s afraid of.”

He takes his spectacles off and pinches two fingers to the bridge of his nose, as if his head aches. “I can’t tell you what to do, Violet. I suppose it really comes down to this—is Burleigh the thing you love most in this world? Espie’s that for me, and if I really had to, I’d die for her in a heartbeat. Would you die for Burleigh?”

I ought to be just as sure as Alfred is. After all, I spent my entire childhood learning my place, my duty, my calling. I am the Caretaker of Burleigh House, and a good Caretaker puts her House before anything, even her own life.

But oh, it feels as if I have only just started to live.

I was once so certain of myself and what would be required of me in this world. As a child, everything seemed clear—I would look after Burleigh, and Burleigh would look after me. Even on the fens, I knew that if I could just get home, everything would be alright again.

It isn’t, though. It’s all falling apart.

“Thank you, Alfred.” I stuff the binding rhyme back into my pocket. “I’m glad you told me the truth.”

“What are you going to do?” he asks.