Page 67 of A Treason of Thorns

Or rather, at the ghost of the dining hall, which now lies in ruins.

In this vision of Burleigh House, a fire crackles on the hearth and rain beads down the dining hall’s long windows, though it looks to be midday. Fitful gusts of wind creep through wide cracks in the walls, and ivy twines its way up toward the ceiling.

Papa sits at the head of the table. I’ve never seen him look so ill—he’s gaunt and hollow-eyed, with a sickly grey pallor to his skin, and when he reaches for his water glass his trembling hand knocks it over. For a long while he sits, watching the damp patch spread across the tablecloth. Then slowly, methodically, in a way that chills me to the bone because there’s no passion in it, just afixed and emotionless intent, he picks up the glass and hurls it across the room.

Shards explode out from where it hits, with a sharp, unmistakable shattering sound. Papa takes the pitcher next and sends it flying after the glass. Then his plate, his teacup, his saucer, his silverware.

It’s not until the last object has gone from the table that he yanks off the tablecloth itself and balls it up, stuffing it into the fire, which backs up and smokes. By this point, mingled blood and mortar run from Papa’s nose and weep from his eyes. He stops to wipe at his face with one sleeve before stalking from the room.

Once he’s gone, I finally notice Wyn, perhaps a year or two younger than he is now. He’s perched on the edge of a chair next to the fireplace, and so still he’s nearly invisible. An untouched plate of colorless stewed parsnips rests on Wyn’s knees and I watch as he sits for a moment, his throat working. Then he sets his plate aside, takes a broom and dustpan from one of the cupboards, and begins to sweep away Papa’s mess.

But halfway through tidying up, Wyn stops and looks about himself, as if to ensure he’s alone. He sets down the broom and dustpan and spreads his hands flat against the golden parquet floor.

All around us, the House hums, with something halfway between anxiety and anticipation.

“Go on, then,” Wyn’s younger self says, his voice unsteady with fear.

And as suddenly and viciously as my father flung his glass against the wall, Burleigh pours magic into Wyn. All around us the House trembles and groans. The ivy that’s crept in and covers the dining room walls withers and dies, leaf after leaf going black.Beneath its skeletal remains, great cracks knit back together in the dining room walls, dust blossoming out to hang on the air. On the hearth, the fire sparks and then roars high, consuming the damp and half-burned tablecloth.

Finally, the House lets Wyn go. He topples over and lies on his side, taking great ragged breaths. But he’s there, within himself, and not an inch of his skin that I can see is stained by mortar.

“Well, that’s a start,” Papa says from the doorway. He stands leaning against the lintel, a frightful contrast to Wyn, with dried mortar still caught in the seams around his eyes and the lines around his mouth. “I’ve been wondering when you’d finally find the nerve to try it. Took you long enough, boy.”

He turns and leaves Wyn sitting among splinters of china, surrounded by walls that once more keep out the rain.

I slip out of bed and crouch in front of Wyn’s ghost. As I watch, his face goes blank. His eyes become vacant. He’s gone from within himself, wandering that endless corridor he described to me, as Burleigh House eats away at his memories.

I can’t watch any longer. Going to the door, I leave Burleigh’s memory behind. My Wyn is fast asleep in the hall, a constant and faithful guardian, though at least he’s not on the ground now that I’ve helped him drag a feather bolster out from one of the abandoned guest rooms.

Bending down, I rest a hand briefly on his untidy hair, then slip past without a sound—just another one of Burleigh’s ghosts. In the silent, moonlit kitchen, I slide my feet into a pair of galoshes. Jed and Mira’s door is shut, and I know at this hour they’re fast asleep. I miss them—all summer we’ve been ships passing in the night. I feel agonizingly on the brink of something, as if I’ve outgrown theold life we had together and haven’t yet found the next place where I’ll belong.

It doesn’t help that I’m planning to do something no self-respecting Caretaker would. If I were the person who Burleigh needs me to be, I would go upstairs, wake the boy sleeping outside my bedroom door, and tell him there’s no place for him in my heart or my life. Tell him that it’s in his power to give me everything I’ve ever wanted, and that I’ll remember him kindly if he does.

But just the thought of speaking those words to Wyn is like splinters inside me. So I leave the kitchen and go out through the garden, where dead and dried rose canes rattle in a scorching breeze. I pass through the meadow, leave the family cemetery behind, and enter the shadow world of Burleigh’s back woods. I cannot risk Wyn, and so I’m going to do something dangerous and desperate instead.

Ominous noises enliven the dark. More than once, I step into a puddle of thick and viscous mortar, and am glad I thought to put on boots. Brambles creep slowly across the footpath, too slow to trip me, but slithering toward my ankles nonetheless. Marsh lights and memories glimmer between the trees, an otherworldly blue-green. But whatever guise they wear, I know the shape of these woods and the paths that run through them. I’d know them in daylight or darkness, and whether they appear sunny or sinister, it’s not in me to fear a piece of Burleigh House.

As I get farther into the woods, the air becomes cold and damp. Misting rain beads on my hair and the fabric of my dressing gown. I come to a place where a winding trail branches off through the trees and veer down it, toward the little valley where the manor’s trout stream rushes and laughs over rapids, rain dimpling its surface.

Scrambling down the muddy, leaf-strewn embankment, I settle beside the stream, trying to ignore the chill that’s growing more bitter with each passing minute. Blinking rainwater from my eyes, I sink my hands into the gravelly soil of the stream bank. It’s an invitation to Burleigh—if anything goes wrong, here I am. A conduit, a channel, a ready vessel for your power. I may not have the key, or a Caretaker’s pure intentions, but I am all you’ve got, House of mine, so set mortar in my blood if you must.

“Burleigh,” I say. “I’m going to ask you a question. And I think you know what it is.”

The wind gusts overhead, moaning in the treetops. Cold rain runs down the back of my neck and I shiver. For weeks we’ve danced around this. For weeks I’ve coddled Burleigh, mindful of its binding and failing health, never wanting to hurt my House even if doing so might save it. But I haven’t the time or the patience or the goodwill left to coddle Burleigh anymore.

“Burleigh,” I ask. “Where is your deed?”

In answer the trout stream bubbles higher, rising against its banks until water laps over the top of my boots. I pull them off and I swallow back frustration.

“Show me, Burleigh. Help me set you free.”

The stream rises again, insistently, and I’m forced further up the bank. But then, darkness falls, so complete that even the shadowy forms of the trees and the occasional glimmer of water from the stream are swallowed up. I pass a hand before my eyes, but it’s as if I’ve shut them. I can’t see a thing.

A smell rises around me, out of place yet still familiar. It’s not the scent of damp earth or rotting wood or forest mosses, but a wild and briny odor—the tang of seawater. My stomach ties itself up inknots, because Burleigh has never shown me anything outside its grounds before. I didn’t even know that it could.

Sounds grow at the edge of my hearing. Waves, crashing against the shore. Gulls, shrieking overhead. And a hollow drip, drip, drip.

This isn’t just a memory the House has for me. Burleigh, desperate to please, is showing me the location of its deed.