Page 82 of A Treason of Thorns

But nothing comes. The chaos in the lane fades away entirely, replaced by birdsong and sunshine. All the snow of yesterday has melted so that Burleigh looks fresh-faced and inviting, as if we’ve just had an April shower.

It’s the end of July, I remind myself. Inviting as this feels, it’s wrong. All of it is wrong.

Every nerve in me sings. While the sun may be bright and thebirds giddy in the trees, the overgrown lawns are still thick with thorns and thistles. The orchard drips not with meltwater but with mortarous blight. Oozing puddles of yet more wet mortar pockmark the path that leads to the desiccated wildflower meadow and the tainted woods.

I don’t have time to linger over the ruins of the grounds. I need to find Burleigh’s heart. House, my love, where have you hidden your most secret self away? I need you to trust me enough to show me where it is.

Burleigh’s emotions are always strongest and clearest when I’m indoors, so I suppose that’s where I’d better start. Hurrying up the front steps, I shut the door behind me.

“Wyn?” I call out, my voice loud in the preternatural calm. I lean against the doorway, thinking hard. There was nothing in Papa’s ledger aboutwherethe House might need to be unbound, only mentions of his search for the deed. According to Alfred, a Caretaker should know where the House’s heart is, but I’ve never been a proper Caretaker. I don’t have the key to guide me, only my sense of this House. So it is once more down to me, and down to Burleigh.

As I stand and think, an eerie scratching and scraping drifts in from outside. Turning, I try to pull the door open an inch or two to see what’s going on, but it won’t budge. A tendril of vine snakes through the keyhole and I realize the front door has been sealed shut by Burleigh’s inexorable, creeping fingers.

There are other doors, though, and countless windows. It’s not enough to quicken my fear again—not yet. Intent on finding Burleigh’s heart, I set off into the House’s dark interior,intermittently calling for Wyn as I go. Wherehashe gone?

The halls are thick with ghosts—everywhere, pale blue memories gutter and glow, Sterlings that history has long forgotten still walking through Burleigh’s ponderous mind. I open doors and run my fingers along walls and feel along bookshelves for hidden latches, waiting for some sense of rightness and surety, that yes, here is Burleigh’s heart. Outside, the weather has shifted and a wind is rising—a dry, choking wind that rushes in through the shattered windows, carrying a fine and gritty dust that tastes and smells of mortar. I cough into my sleeve, and keep my arm up to shield my mouth and nose.

With each room I enter, the wind grows fiercer. It howls in the eaves, screams down the chimneys, gnaws through cracked walls, and rattles the last shards of broken glass in the window frames. The longer I stay out in it, the more I cough, until finally a fit nearly bends me double.

Briefly, I consider calling out to Burleigh, begging the House to stop. But it knows what it’s doing, I’m sure. Whether this is an obstacle or a test or a warning, however, remains to be seen.

My chest burns and my head aches and spins, until as I leave each room, it takes me a moment to remember where I’ve come from, and which way I’m headed.

I search the study.

The conservatory.

The smoking room.

The drawing room.

The second-best parlor.

The kitchen.

The ballroom.

The dining room.

The breakfast room.

They all begin to blur together. Cracked walls. Encroaching ivy. Splintered floors strewn with rubble. And wind and dust everywhere, the sound and swirl of them overwhelming. The pain in my head is nearly unbearable, and each time I cough it feels as if my skull will burst. But I carry on, driven by that nagging sense that I’ve lost my way, or lostsomething, and must continue the search.

At last I climb the stairs in the front hall, reach the top, and sway on the landing. In my hand, there is a plain, uneven piece of rock, and when I look at it, it’s as if someone’s driven a knife through the base of my skull. I shut my eyes tight and wait for the pain to subside.

But I don’t let go of the stone.

“Violet, what does a Caretaker put first?” Papa asks. The memory of his voice is so clear, even against the howl of the wind, that it’s as if he’s spoken from just beside me. I open my eyes and look down at the stone once more, and though the infernal aching of my head has driven the knowledge of what it is from my mind, I grasp the token tightly. There’s something I’ve forgotten. Something tied to this bit of rock. Something I cannot find. If the wind would only die down for a moment, if my head would cease its pounding, I’m sure I could remember.

For now, exhaustion steers me toward my room, and the sanctuary of my bed.

I climb under the covers, pull them up over my head, and fall into a troubled sleep, still clutching Burleigh’s heartstone in one hand.

“Violet.”

It’s hard to wake—sleep clings to me, and when I manage to open my eyes, pain bursts to life behind them. But once I manage to inch higher on my pillows, I can’t help smiling in spite of it.

Everything is blissfully calm. Spring sunlight pours through my bedroom windows. A small fire snaps and crackles on the hearth. Mama and Papa both wait at the foot of the bed, and they fit together so well, her close to his side, him with an arm around her shoulders.