Page 8 of A Treason of Thorns

I have nothing to say to that. The idea of His Majesty giving Burleigh’s key to anyone else and forcing Burleigh to accept a stranger as Caretaker pours ice through my veins. I watch as the carriage pulls away, the king’s guardsmen marching in its wake. The wall surrounding Burleigh House is unbroken and impermeable stone now. Jed stands near the place where the gate used to be, shoulders slumped in defeat.

I take a few steps up onto the grassy verge and rest my forehead against Burleigh’s wall, once the boundary of my world and now a prison.

“Look after him,” I say to the House. I feel empty and hollow, as if there’s nothing inside me but grey fog. “I know you can’t do anything for Papa, and you’re not meant to care for anyone but yourself. Perhaps I shouldn’t even ask—maybe a good Caretaker wouldn’t. But, oh, Burleigh, if you can, look after Wyn. And someday I promise I’ll be back to look after you.”

“Vi!”

Mira jolts me out of my remembering, appearing flushed and worried at the top of the loft’s ladder.

“Child, what on earth is taking you so—” She catches sight of the open chest and softens. “I’m sorry. But you should eat something, even if you are feeling a bit out of sorts.”

“Maybe just a cup of tea? I’ll be down directly.”

When she’s gone, I glance at the sprig of ivy in my hand. Impossibly, it’s flushed green once more, the leaves waxy and alive, so fresh it might have just been cut from the vine. I press the token to my lips and manage a small, mirthless smile.

“Soon, Burleigh,” I murmur. “I’ll be home soon.”

The ivy goes grey, and I feel the faintest prickle of magic as mortar suffuses the leaves. In a moment, they’ve lost their shape entirely, leaving my palm gritty with dust and smelling of old stone. A little tendril of pain and fear curls through my skin.

My homegoing can’t come soon enough. I won’t let anyone, not even a king, stand in my way.

3

THISWICK, THE NEAREST VILLAGE TO OUR COTTAGE, WASbuilt near a crossroads. It sees plenty of travelers, which means the Knight’s Arms is crowded at noon, my appointed meeting time with His Majesty. I push my way into the cavernous public room and cast about myself, looking for royal uniforms, or the king’s familiar face.

Through a doorway that leads to the inn’s private dining space, I catch a glimpse of red livery. Of course His Majesty wouldn’t be out here, eating with common folk—foolish of me to think he would. Surreptitiously rubbing my damp palms against my skirt, I shove past merchants and sailors and tinkers, only to have Dex, the proprietor of the Knight’s Arms, stop me at the door to the private room. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man, with an amiable smile and a purple birthmark that stands out against one white cheek.

“Are you sure you want to go in there, Vi?” Dex asks. He’s known since we first arrived who I am and why I’m here, worlds away from Burleigh House. Sometimes I think all of England’s party to my sad family affairs. Especially in the West Country, where they sayfolk keep calendars marking the days since Papa’s arrest, and drink to his health every night instead of the king’s.

Who will they drink to now, I wonder?

I square my shoulders. “No, I’m not sure. But I have to do it anyway—the king said he has news about the House. About my father.”

Dex lets out a long breath and nods. “So it’s finally come to that. I’m sorry. We all are. I’ll be about if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Dex.” Before my nerves can fail me, I cross the threshold into the private dining hall.

The inn staff have been dispensed with in favor of the king’s own liveried servants, who stand quietly along the wall, ready to step forward at the slightest indication they’re wanted. A handful of courtiers sit at the table, fearfully au courant in ribbons and lace, the women wearing flimsy dresses with waistlines that nip up under their breasts, the men in frock coats and breeches and garishly colored cravats. I wonder if this is how I would look, had my life gone differently—bright and unmarked by grief, fashionable and sharp as tacks.

As it is, I’m drab and downcast by comparison, in my plain wool-spun shirt and often-patched skirt. Like a reed bunting beside kingfishers. But none of it matters. I have no pride, no position, and no place left to me. I’ve come to hear the worst, to ask after Burleigh House, and, as the king knew I would, to beg for a chance to go home.

His Majesty sits at the head of the table with a plate of dainties before him and a bored expression on his face. He’s a lean, middle-aged man with shrewd dark eyes and a white complexion,pale from too much time spent indoors at his desk and the gaming tables.

The sight of him chills me to the bone. It is a relic of the old medieval hostage system that he’s my godfather at all. Since the Great Houses were bound, Caretakers’ children have been placed under the guardianship of the reigning sovereign. A pretty thought at face value—the royal family serving those who serve the Houses. Truly, it is a ploy to ensure the loyalty of the Caretakers. His Majesty took an interest in me when I was small—sent gifts, and would stop at Burleigh House whenever he passed by. He taught me to play cards, and I spent my childhood convinced he and Papa were friends.

But none of that familiarity and feigned friendship was enough to ensure mercy for my father, or clemency for me once Papa’s great crime was uncovered.

I will make you dance, His Majesty said. Well, here I am. Will it be a waltz, or a gavotte?

Hiding my hands behind my back so the king won’t see how they tremble, I step closer to the table and clear my throat. One of the courtiers is twittering away, and I go unnoticed.

I reach for anger rather than fear, but can’t quite find it. Sterling stubbornness will have to suffice.

“Uncle Edgar,” I say, loud enough that everyone in the room can hear. The courtiers fall silent, and their eyes widen at my decision to call him by the name I used when I was small. “You wanted to see me?”

A delighted smile replaces the king’s look of boredom. With a loud scrape he pushes his chair back, and I will myself not to falter as he puts a hand on each of my shoulders and presses a kiss to mycheek. “Violet Sterling,whereis the pretty child I knew? You look like an absolute fishwife. What would your father think?”

The courtiers giggle, assured that their pleasant day will carry on much as it has done, and that my intrusion will cause no trouble. But somewhere within me, music has begun. If I’m to dance for my House, I mean to lead, not to follow.