Page 63 of A Treason of Thorns

“Burleigh hasn’t done anything wrong,” Little Vi answers irritably. “It’s sorry, and didn’t mean anything by it.”

Papa wraps a handkerchief around my bleeding wrist, his gaze never leaving me. “What do you mean, Burleigh’s sorry? That’s very specific, Vi.”

Little Vi shrugs and turns back to her dolls as soon as he lets her go. “I mean it’s sorry you’re angry, but thinks you shouldn’t be. Don’t youfeelit, Papa?”

He shuts his eyes and the ghosts around me waver and rearrange.

In this new vision of Burleigh House, Little Vi’s tucked up in bed, and it must be later on the same day, for the handkerchief still binds her wrist. Mama and Papa stand at her bedside and are in the middle of speaking in strained tones as the girl I was sleeps peacefully.

“I wanted you to know, Eloise,” Papa says. “I want to be honest with you. I didn’t expect it of Burleigh, but I’m going to take care of everything, and it won’t matter, I promise. It won’t ever come to anything, because I’m going to sort out the House, and it will never have need of Violet in that way.”

Mama’s face is a mask of shock and horror. “George, there is nothing you can tell me that will make things better. This House is a danger to Violet. It marked her for death. Perhaps you can live with that, but I can’t.”

Papa grows defensive. “It doesn’t matter so long as she’s not working House magic. And Burleigh only marked her because I don’t think anyone’s ever loved a Great House the way Vi does. She’s willing. She’d give the breath out of her lungs for this place. The Houses don’t understand about age or childhood, anyway—Burleigh’s been here for thousands of years.”

There’s venom in Mama’s voice. “That doesn’t change the fact that Violet is five years old. She still thinks fairies live under the rosebushes. Of course she loves her magic House. But when she gets older, she’ll come to realize the devil is in it. Fix this, George Sterling. Make it. Right.”

“I can’t.” Papa spreads his hands helplessly. “There’s nothing Ican do. I can only try to ensure that Burleigh never needs her.”

Mama turns on her heel.

“You’re a smart man. A brilliant Caretaker, they say. So figure something else out,” she hisses over one shoulder as she leaves the room.

The memory fades, leaving Wyn and me sitting side by side once more in the dim hallway. A little vine springs up at my side and twines around my wrist, brushing velvet petals against the place where thorns bit at me. I swallow, and tamp down an urge to pull away from Burleigh’s touch.

“The House bound you to itself when you were five years old, Violet,” Wyn says softly. “Burleigh’s always loved you best, I’m only sorry that this is what it led to.”

I sit in silence, trying not to think how the vine resting soft against my wrist suddenly feels like a shackle.

I love Burleigh. Burleigh loves me. I would choose Burleigh. Burleigh chose me.

Then why does this still seem so much like betrayal?

As always, I force my hurt feelings down inside. It doesn’t matter. I have a job to do, and was intent on this path anyway. Burleigh House has just made my life easier. All that remains now is to open myself to its magic. To let it overtake me.

To become the last Caretaker, who saves her beloved House.

“I’m glad you told me,” I say to Wyn, though the words sound forced. “I would have chosen Burleigh anyway, so at least the House and I are in accord.”

“No, Violet. That’s not all of it,” he says.

21

FEAR GNAWS AT MY INSIDES AS WYN LOOKS UP AT THEceiling.

“Burleigh,” he says. “Show us the day I came here.”

Somewhere within the walls, timbers groan.

“Burleigh,” Wyn presses. And darkness falls.

A phantom image of the front drive appears around us, on a fresh afternoon in early spring. I know this day at once, because there I am, with a bandage around my left wrist. I stand waiting for Papa in my braids and my pinafore, bouncing up and down in place. He left for Taunton before dawn on an errand, which he said was partly for the House and partly for me. I remember my excitement over that—most of his trips were strictly on Burleigh’s behalf. At last the gate swings open and Papa’s horse appears on the drive. I bolt toward him, only to freeze in place.

Because there’s a boy with my father, sitting in front of him and looking absurdly small and timid. He’s pale and hunched, and I don’t know what’s filthier—the boy himself or his clothes.

“Papa,” I call to my father as soon as he’s within earshot. I’m sobrazen—so certain of myself and my place. “Who’s that with you? He looks a frightful mess.”

Papa reins in his horse and dismounts, then helps the strange boy down. The boy stands in the shadow of my father’s quiet gelding and trembles, like a frightened dog. I give him a dubious look. Never a compassionate child at best, I funnel what empathy I do possess toward Burleigh House, leaving little behind for others.