Page 83 of A Treason of Thorns

“Good morning, darling,” Mama says brightly. Her voice sounds thin and far away. “Did you forget it’s your birthday today? We’ve got a lovely breakfast laid out for you, and a whole day of surprises planned.”

I rub at my eyes, because there’s a strange, diffuse blue light swimming across everything—the windows and walls of my room, Mama’s and Papa’s forms, even the bedclothes. The only thing that seems entirely substantial is my own body. When I turn one of my hands over and open it, I find a broken stone resting on my palm. It tugs at my memory, and feels more important than such an insignificant thing ought to.

Papa comes over with a dressing gown and I step out of bed with a glad smile.

“Thank you, Papa.” For a moment, I consider tucking the stone I hold into one of the dressing gown pockets, but an odd compulsion tells me to keep it close. So I wrap my fingers around it and smile at my father.

“Ready, my love?” he asks.

“Ready.”

We walk together to the top of the steps, where Jed is standing by. Even Jed looks odd, though, lit by that same wavering light.

“Am I alright?” I ask him dully, because my head won’t stop aching and though I’ve been told it’s my birthday, I can’t remember how old I’m going to be. “Everything seems so strange today.”

Jed reaches out to pat my hand and I pull it back, not wanting to show anyone the token I hold. So he takes my other hand in his and I stifle a gasp, because his grip is cold as ice and my skin grows steadily greyer and more lifeless beneath his touch.

“Please let go,” I beg. “Please. I can’t bear it.”

“It’s just her usual trouble,” Papa says to Jed with a shake of his head. Mama puts an arm around me, but she’s careful not to touch my bare skin.

“Vi,” she soothes. “Everything’s fine. You’re fine. Let’s just have a lovely day, shall we? You know how anxious you get, and it’s always over nothing. No one can make a mountain out of a molehill like you, darling.”

My face heats and I keep my head down so she won’t see the hot tears pooling in my eyes. It’s true—I never seem able to manage my fears the way everyone else does. And I’m even afraid of letting other people see how panicked I can become. It stings to have my shortcomings cast up to me, when I work so hard to hide them.

Wyn is the only one who ever seems to really understand.

But at the thought of him, the nagging pain in my head doubles. Soon the fierce ache drives every other thought out, and I keep my mind a careful blank until it subsides. As the pain goes, it takes most of my recollections of Wyn with it, leaving only confusion in their wake.

“Is there someone missing?” I ask as Papa leads me into the kitchen. He and Mama are here, as well as Jed and Mira, but I can’t help being ill at ease, as if we’ve left someone out and they may walk in the door at any moment.

“Silly girl.” Mama brushes a kiss against my hair and for a moment my scalp freezes. “Who else is there? Mira, where do you want us for cake?”

I blink, and with a sudden, sickening wave of vertigo, find myself sitting out in the rose garden, on a checkered blanket with Mama and Papa. Mama hands me a china plate with a slice of white cake on it.

“Here you are, darling. Happy birthday.”

Outside, it’s easier to see the strangeness of the wavering light on their faces, the roses, the grass. I squint, trying to stare past it, and for a moment I catch a glimpse of the garden after nightfall, its rosebushes standing dead, the gravel pathways choked with moss and briars.

“I don’t want the cake,” I tell Mama, pushing the plate away. “None of this is right.”

She looks at me and her porcelain doll’s face saddens. “What have we done wrong? We’re trying, Violet. How can we make you happy?”

But beneath her sweet voice, there’s an eerily familiar sound. A grating quality, like brick rubbing against stone.

“I have to go,” I say, struggling to my feet and swaying as my head pounds. “I have to find Wyn.”

Mama frowns and I gasp at the starbursts of pain going off in my skull.

“Find who?” she asks.

“Wyn,” I say through gritted teeth. “Papa’s ward, the boy I grew up with who was supposed to be company for me. But we all know better now, don’t we? We know it was more than company he was meant for.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” Mama says, but there’s a scream of stone on stone underpinning her words.

I walk away. My head is aching so badly all I want is to lie down, and I break into a sweat after ten paces, but I gather up all my flagging willpower and carry on.

“Violet Sterling, where are you going?” Mama calls after me. Her voice is barely human now, and when I glance back over one shoulder, she looks more like a stone angel than a flesh-and-blood woman.