Page 86 of A Treason of Thorns

“Miss Sterling. I caught a glimpse of you earlier but you were—how shall we say it—not yourself? Well done, Burleigh House, she looked absolutely bewildered. Ripley Castle never got nearly this far into the Ingilby girl’s head.”

The ground trembles beneath my feet and a breeze whips up, whispering angrily among the tree branches. It’s heavy with the scent of damp earth and lamp oil. I cross my arms and glare at Falmouth, trying to make myself small and stubborn and thorny. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to finish this,” Falmouth says, setting down his bucket and stepping into the path between me and the House. “It’s so much tidier this way—we can’t very well have you unbinding Burleigh, not even to save the place. Can you imagine if you succeeded? There’d be a general uproar, and people would be asking why every House can’t be unbound.”

“Why can’t they?” I ask, belligerence weighting my words.

Falmouth shakes his head. “You know why. This isn’t personal, Miss Sterling, it’s politics—no one likes to give up power, and the Great Houses are power. His Majesty’s power, and, by extension, mine.”

“You’re a villain,” I say, and try to step around him.

But Falmouth stays in front of me, blocking the way. “Am I? Am I really? Look around you. There’s only one villain on these grounds, and that’s the House itself. Burleigh is already wreaking havoc in the West Country. Crops are failing—have already failed. Mortar’s leaking out into the countryside and poisoning the earth. And what’s this I hear about Burleigh and your father binding that boy? We’ve all hedged our bets, Violet. Your father took precautions should you fail. I’m taking precautions to ensure you don’t succeed.”

“If the king wanted to burn me alive with Burleigh, he should have just done it at the beginning of summer,” I snap. Falmouth’s under my skin, though I shouldn’t let him nettle me. “Why wait all this time?”

“Oh, he had no intention of burning Burleigh with you inside the grounds,” Falmouth purrs. “You’re a bit of a blind spot for the king—I doubt he’s even serious about hanging you. But I don’t like the idea of the House damaging more of the land while you’re in here, or if you fail—there’s that little matter of the rents I’ll be collecting when all this is over, you see. As per your agreement with His Majesty, the land in these parts will still be mine. So I took the initiative, and now I’ll trouble you for that heartstone. Can’t have you running back to the House and unbinding Burleigh while it’s already ablaze.”

I shake my head and glance past him at Burleigh, but he’s blocking the way and the forest floor beyond the path is a sinuous tangle of brambles. Even if the way were clear, I can’t leave him, not with the forest drenched in oil and ready to go up in flames.

Falmouth adjusts one of his cuff links fastidiously.

“The stone, Miss Sterling,” he repeats.

“Never.” I scowl at him.

“Very well.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket. Light gleams on metal and by the time my mind’s processed that it isn’t a tinderbox in his hand, it’s a pistol, the aftermath of a shot is already echoing through the air. Pain like I’ve never known splinters up my right leg and I crumple to the ground.

But I never let go of the heartstone.

The Duke of Falmouth walks over and stands above me, pistol still in hand. On his watch chain, I catch a glimmer of red—the bowstone of Burleigh House’s key. It sickens me to see it in his possession, and I grasp the stone more tightly.

“You’re a foolhardy creature,” Falmouth says with a shake of his head. “Don’t know when you’re beaten, just like your father. I would advise you to lie very still, and hope Burleigh House thinks enough of you to hasten your end.”

I watch through blurred vision, clutching the place where his shot lodged in my leg. Blood pours out over my hands, and it’s coming far too fast, slicking my palms and pooling on the forest floor. I stuff the heartstone into my pocket to get a better grip, but it’s not enough. Where my skin still shows through the scarlet stains, I can see myself growing paler.

Falmouth’s footsteps retreat a little way, and I hear the strikingof a match. Then the flare of flames, followed by a sudden, acrid billow of smoke.

“Goodbye, Miss Sterling,” Falmouth says. “Pity about the House. I would have enjoyed bringing it to heel.”

“Burleigh, I need you,” I whisper, and the slur of my own words alarms me. “I know we’re at odds, but I need you.”

Everything in me stiffens as House magic rushes up from the ground and pours mortar through my veins.

“That’s not what I meant,” I gasp frantically. “Stop it, Burleigh, you’ll kill me.”

But the magic doesn’t stop. I curl up on my side and stare at the leaves carpeting the forest floor, as with each heartbeat, blood rushes out of me and mortar rushes in.

32

I DON’T KNOW WHEN I’VE EVER BEEN SO COLD. BUT IN Away, it’s a mercy because I can feel nothing else. None of the other pains—my splitting head, my torn feet, my bleeding leg—even register anymore. The trees waver and spin, and I glance down at the place where Falmouth’s shot struck me, a handspan above the knee.

Mortar rimes the edge of the wound. It’s already slowed the flow of blood, making it sluggish and thick. I watch as little by little, mortar seals my torn flesh altogether. As it does, the flood of magic pouring into me abates. I won’t bleed to death, so long as I survive the mortar itself.

I never should have doubted my House.

Falmouth, still lighting fires nearby, grunts to himself, as if he’s not sure whether to be put out or glad. I hear the sound of him fiddling with his single-shot pistol, the leaden clink of another ball entering its chamber, the little hiss of gunpowder being added.