Page 61 of A Treason of Thorns

Frey pauses for a moment before speaking again. “Then awhileafter your mother left, your father and I didn’t just work together anymore.”

“Oh.Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry, Frey. I never stop to think that I’m not the only one who lost him.”

“He was like the sun, your father,” Frey says. “When he was in a room, it felt warmer. There’s not a soul in Burleigh Halt that didn’t grieve when he died, Violet Sterling, and don’t you forget that. He was everything a Caretaker ought to be. But I’ll tell you something—now he’s gone, everyone who lives on your House’s doorstep is just hoping to get through Burleigh’s end in one piece. I know the countryside does better with Burleigh to quicken it, but remember the Sixth House. It’s a terrible risk you’re taking, trying to set that place free.”

“I know.” I twist one of Mama’s gloves in my mortar-marred hands. “But what else can I do, Frey? I’m a Sterling. This is everything I’ve been born and bred for.”

“You can break the mold,” Frey says firmly. “Walk away. Let nature and the king run their course. And then, when the dust has settled and your heart’s mended, I’d be happy to have my serving girl back. Maybe make you a partner someday.”

It’s a very generous offer. But the mere thought of living on magicless land, so close to what was once my beloved House, works in me worse than mortar.

“I’ll think on it,” I say. “And I don’t take the well-being of the West Country lightly, I promise you that.”

“You can choose your own fate, Violet,” Frey tells me. “Your own priorities. Burleigh doesn’t have to be your beginning and end.”

But I’ve never imagined a world like that. I’ve never believed I could.

Burleigh’s ghosts haunt me. They whisper and murmur in the corners of my room at all hours. I toss and turn at night, and whenever I open my eyes, all I can see in the dark is glowing figures, wavering in the moonlight. The House feels tense and frustrated, as if it knows its own end is drawing nearer. I roll over in bed and static sparks snap from the sheets.

Another week has gone by, without any new information about Burleigh’s deed. In less than a month, His Majesty will descend with torches, to burn my House and send its magic up in smoke.

I’ve begun to steel myself for the inevitable.

For a binding. For a death.

And I wonder, sitting up in bed and watching Burleigh’s memories play out around me, if it will remember me once my body has brought it to new land. Will my ghost haunt the halls of Burleigh House reborn? Or will I be forgotten once my sacrifice is made?

Panic rises in my throat at the thought. I push away the covers and pad into the hall, crouching at Wyn’s side.

“Psst,” I whisper to him. “Wyn. Wake up.”

He rolls over and sleeps on.

“Wyn.” I reach out and nudge him. He’s warm with sleep and the corridor is far quieter than my room. Briefly, I’m tempted to slide under the blanket next to him. I sincerely doubt I’d drop off with Wyn so close, though. Of late, there’s not just tension and sparks between Burleigh and me.

At last, Wyn stirs.

“Vi?” His voice is hoarse and he clears his throat, still barely awake as he squints up at me. “Is something wrong?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Oh.” Wyn’s eyes drift shut again. “Well, try counting sheep.”

“My room’s full of ghosts. They’re too loud. I can’t hear myself counting.”

Wyn shifts himself closer to the wall and folds the blanket back without opening his eyes. “Here. Now go to sleep.”

Oh dear.

I slip carefully under the blanket, taking great pains not to touch him. Then I lie flat on my back and stare straight up at the ceiling. Mercy, it’s not particularly comfortable on this floor. He’s a bit of a glutton for punishment, Wyn is.

I don’t allow myself to turn onto one side until I’m certain he must have dozed back off. But when I finally do turn over, I let out a startled yelp, because Wyn’s awake and staring right at me.

“Blood and mortar, Wyn, what are you doing?”

“I’ve remembered something,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “You used to sleep through anything. There was that winter I fell down your bedroom chimney, looking for Father Christmas—you never even woke up.”

“Not one of your best ideas, that.” I shake my head.