Page 81 of A Treason of Thorns

“It’s only me,” I say.

Glancing up, Frey leans back in her chair and tilts her head from side to side, stretching the tension from her neck.

“I needed a distraction; you’ve got good timing, Vi. You’re not here for... what you left with me already, are you?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I’d rather have everything over with, one way or another. There’s no point delaying the inevitable.”

Frey pulls the heartstone from her pocket with a sigh. “Here it is, then. I didn’t like to leave it anywhere. It’s hard to believe we’ve finally come down to this, isn’t it?”

Though I ought to be going, I sit down next to her and stare at the heartstone. “What am I doing, Frey? I’ve got a lot riding on this—so much more than just the House, but... is it wrong of me to risk the West Country? To chance Burleigh ending up like Ripley Castle? I started out so certain, that I was meant to be a Caretaker and that Burleigh is more important than anything, but I don’t know anymore.”

“Iknow,” Frey says. “And I haven’t left Burleigh Halt. That more than anything should tell you I believe you’re enough for this, Violet Sterling. If there was a doubt in my mind, I’d have packed up and left. Nothing personal, see, but I’ve lived this long in the world and I intend to live longer. But when you step back off those grounds having done what no one else could, not even your father, I’ll be right here. He’d have been proud of you, George would. I hope you know that.”

“I’m not sure.” I gnaw at a ravaged fingernail. “I used to want nothing more than to be like him, but we’ve turned out to be very different people.”

“That’s why he’d be proud.” Frey pushes the heartstone toward me. “He did a lot of things he regretted in life, your father. And I’m sure binding that boy ended up at the top of the list.”

I glance at her sharply. “How do you know about that?”

“Esperanza, of course. Look, are you going to save Burleigh House and your beau or not? Because you can’t sit here talking to me all day, I’ve got accounts to balance.”

“Fine, I’m going,” I mutter, taking the heartstone and dropping it into my own pocket. That feeling of brokenness, of pain and incompletion, is so strong when I pick it up that it’s like being shoved, and I’m forced a few steps backward.

“Good, go on, then. I’m only going to cover so many of your shifts before I find a new serving girl, so don’t dawdle while you’re at it. And no, I’m not saying anything other than that; if you want pleasantries from me just you see that you get back here in one piece.”

30

SO IT’S COME DOWN TO THIS: I’M AFRAID OF GOING HOME.With Burleigh’s missing piece in my pocket, I trudge across the fields, clambering over low stone walls and wooden gates, because meeting the others in the lane on their way into the village from the House would be more than I could take.

And I am deathly afraid. My hands are slick with it, my belly flips with it, my breath is quick with it. Fear, fear, fear that won’t be tamped down, no matter how hard I try. Instead I let it be. Let my hands and knees tremble, and my breath quaver. I’m going home to Burleigh House, which I’ve loved all my life. But it’s Burleigh that killed my father and may yet kill Wyn. That will surely try to kill me when I set foot on the grounds with its missing piece in hand. How one-sided the love I hold for my House has come to feel.

I am so caught up in my fear that I don’t notice the faint sounds of horses—the jangle of tack and occasional muffled thump of a hoof. Instead, I push through the hedgerow opposite Burleigh’s gate and come out directly in front of His Majesty the king, backed by two dozen mounted and red-coated soldiers.

“Hello, Uncle Edgar,” I say, mentally scrambling to hide my shock and dismay, and hoping the words come across as easy and uncaring. “I’ve just been out for a walk. You haven’t been waiting long, I hope? Though you are a few days earlier than I expected.”

But the king’s normally genial face is impassive and forbidding. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice you stealing from me? That as a deedholder, I don’t have a sense for the Houses—every piece of them—and can tell when something’s gone wrong? Because I’ve felt Burleigh declining all summer, Violet, and gave you a chance. More of a chance than you deserve. You took that opportunity, turned around, and robbed me.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I lie flatly, because there’s nothing else I can do.

His Majesty raises a hand and snaps his fingers. Three horsemen in dark frock coats, not regimental uniforms, ride forward.

“These gentlemen are magistrates,” the king says. “I assume you know what that means.”

Three magistrates for a traveling court. Just like the one that sentenced my father.

“Violet Helena Sterling,” Edgar Rex, King of England says, his voice clear and stern on the warm, soft air. “I hereby charge you with treason. And as Burleigh House is shortly to be burned, I recommend a sentence of hanging by the neck, until you are dead.”

And then all hell breaks loose.

Enormous vines studded with thorns the size of my forearm explode out from the bramble gate. They twine around the delicate fetlocks of shying horses, and I hear the sharp report of cannon bones snapping. The lane is filled with foundering mounts and soldiers bound by brambles, unable to reach their powder or pistols.Only the king remains untouched, but for once he’s left witless, able only to stand and watch the destruction Burleigh has wrought upon his men in the blink of an eye.

I allow myself a scant second to watch, too, to marvel with a bitter sort of elation at the spectacle of Burleigh House acting with no regard for its bond. But the bare swath my House has cut through the gathered soldiers beckons, and already more killing brambles are clambering over the whole length of Burleigh’s walls, turning them to an impenetrable hedge of thorns.

Gathering up my skirts, I run.

“Violet Sterling, set foot on those grounds and you’re signing your own death warrant far faster than I can,” the king bellows after me, but I ignore him. I hurtle across the threshold of Burleigh’s gate and brambles snap back into place behind me, sealing me in, sealing everyone else out.

The sounds of screaming horses and shouting soldiers and the ranting king grow fainter at once. I stand stock-still, heart pounding in my chest, waiting to meet the same fate they have. Waiting for thorns to pierce my skin, for vines to tear at me, for the heartstone to drop from my pocket, leaving Burleigh almost, but not quite, whole. And then, the spectacular end. The West Country going down in flames or famine, in plague or flood.