Page 85 of A Treason of Thorns

“You know what it is to feel broken and rootless and betrayed,” Wyn answers. But there’s a rasp of stone behind the words, and I shudder. It’s no longer him speaking, but Burleigh. “We’ve been wronged too often, Caretaker’s child—even without the binding,we wouldn’t gamble our wholeness on your goodwill.”

Then all at once Wyn’s voice is his own again, and he carries on speaking as if it had been him and not Burleigh talking all along.

“... and if I set foot out there—when I catch the House’s attention, it gets into me. Into my head. And I hate it, because we are one and the same. I feel the anger it feels, the wanting, the violence. Burleigh doesn’twantto kill you for the stone, Vi, but that doesn’t mean we won’t if needs must.”

“This isn’t you,” I insist. “Not the boy I know. There is nowe, just you and Burleigh House. Hold on to yourself, Wyn—you’d never do me harm.”

“Really?” It’s strange and eerie, listening to Wyn’s disembodied voice in the absolute darkness, hearing it grow less and less like his usual tone. “What have we ever been but bound, bound to put your needs before our own? We’ve never been free, Violet. Would you even recognize us, I wonder?”

He’s mostly Burleigh again, wavering back and forth between the two moment by moment, and fear washes over me. I can’t help but feel as if it’s Wyn speaking to me, even when Burleigh’s voice is the one coming from his lips.

“Couldn’t I say the same?” I retort, falling back on Sterling stubbornness and indignation because there is nothing else left to me. “When have you ever knownmeto be free? Born on these grounds, shedding blood onto your soil every time I skinned a knee or pricked a finger. Told from the time I could speak thatyou’re meant to be the Caretaker, Vi, and a good Caretaker puts her House first. You bound me yourself when I was five—I’ve spent more of my life with your mortar running in my veins than I have withoutit. You may be bound, but so am I.”

“Give us what we lost,” the voice says, and there’s nothing of Wyn left in it, just the scrape of stone.

“I can’t. Not like this.”

Implacable fingers grasp at my arm and I jerk away, scrambling to my feet. But when I beat my fists against the cupboard door, the vines outside hold fast.

“Wyn,” I plead, “stop this, please, you’re frightening me.”

For a long moment, all I can hear is the sound of my own rattling breath, a counterpoint to the inhale and exhale of whoever is here in the dark.

There’s a snap like a small peal of thunder, followed by the smell of burning vines. The cupboard door flies open, and I’m blinded by noon sun, though I walked through the door on a moonlit night. Unforgiving sunshine shows my decaying room, the window seats littered with broken glass and slate roofing tiles, the bedclothes spotted with mildew.

Wyn stands in the shadows behind me. His skin is grey and rough as mortar, but his eyes are his own.

“There’s something here Burleigh doesn’t want you to find,” he says, wincing as if the words burn his mouth. “Out in the back woods, past the trout stream. Everything’s a muddle and I don’t know what it is, but maybe it’s what you’re looking for. Maybe it’s the heart of the House.”

Already the grumble of stone is creeping back into his voice, and his eyes are glazing over with a film of mortar.

“Stay with me,” I murmur, stepping closer and pressing my lips to his forehead, his jawline, his mouth. “Don’t leave me, Wyn. Iwant you with me when all this is over. None of this matters without you—not Burleigh, not a Caretaker’s key, not my name or my land or my legacy.”

His eyes clear and fix on me. “Vi. There’s no time.Go.”

With one last regretful look at him, standing half in shadow, half in sunshine, I gather my courage and bolt.

31

I WISH I’D PUT ON SHOES AFTER WAKING TO THAT FEVERdream of Mama and Papa. As I hurtle down the stairs, a dark and all-encompassing malice rises up through my bare soles. The House is unhappy, but I know who I am again. I know my purpose, and I will not stop for anything, not even Burleigh.

The sun hangs low on the western horizon as I burst through the conservatory door and wing my way across the rose garden. The light’s lengthening preternaturally fast—I have no way of knowing how much time I’ve spent within the walls. The roses have resumed their dry, decayed aspect, now my mind is free of Burleigh’s influence. The wildflower meadow lies dead and dying, too. Halfway down the well-worn path at its center, a thistle pierces one of my already damaged feet, but I keep going, ignoring the pain that jolts up my leg with each step.

The woods loom ahead, and there are still gaps in the wall of brambles surrounding them. I step through one open place, and am overwhelmed by a dreadful sense of unease, the sort of taut energy a wild creature possesses before taking its prey. It renews my senseof urgency, and I hurry along, twisted trees flashing by at the edge of my vision, reaching out to me with grasping twigs. I don’t know if it’s just the normal way of reaching branches or if the House is trying to slow me, but I don’t stop to find out. Leaping over fallen trunks and low spots where fetid water pools on the ground, I head for Burleigh’s heart, and for this journey’s end.

My lungs burn and my legs shake by the time the trout stream appears as a glimmer through the trees. When the stream bank approaches, I gather myself without slowing and jump for all I’m worth.

The landing forces a yelp from me. Part of the thistle must still be lodged in my foot, because it feels as if I’m stepping on knives each time I shift my weight. But there’s no time, no time. The pain in my feet is already matched by pain in my head. It blurs my vision and sets the forest spinning, and worse yet, dulls my wits.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the heartstone, gripping it tight. Let it remind me. Let it hold my focus.

Still, as the pain in my foot grows, I slow, and limp, and finally sit to pull the spines from my sole because it’s silly to run when every step is an agony. By the time I’ve yanked all the spines free and wrapped the wound with a strip torn from my skirt, I’m not sure what I’m doing so far into the woods. It’s foolish to wander so far from Burleigh, when the House has only ever looked after me and I’ve never wanted anything but to be together.

Getting to my feet, I’ve nearly decided to go back home, but then I see a figure moving through the trees near the edge of the grounds, starting and stopping as they go. With a frown, I walk toward them.

When I’m close enough to make out who it is, everything comes crashing back. I remember who I am once more: Violet Sterling, Caretaker by default of this ancient and vicious place, this House of terrible beauty, with its violent desire to be free no matter the cost. I am all that and more, since Wyn’s life depends on my success. I’ve never been much of a one for games, but I’ve gambled everything on this endeavor.

And I haven’t found my House’s heart. Instead, I’ve found the Duke of Falmouth, His Majesty’s dirty hands, burning my beloved Burleigh’s forest. Falmouth strides through the back woods with a bucket of oil, dousing the trunks of twisted, mortarous trees. When a dry twig snaps beneath my feet, he glances up and gives me a wolfish smile.