Page 87 of A Treason of Thorns

Then there’s a flurry of crackling dead leaves, followed by the sound of two solid things striking against one another. I struggle to push myself up on one elbow. Falmouth is on the ground, reeling,and just as he stood over me Wyn stands over him now, holding a splintered beam ready to strike again. And I can’t tell who he is, the boy I know or Burleigh or both at once. All I know is that there is something strange and fearsome on his face that I have never seen there before.

“Stop it, Wyn,” I gasp, to whoever’s wearing the body of the boy I love. Veins of darkest grey are running through his already stony skin. “The House is bound never to take a life, and you’re more than half Burleigh now. If you break another part of the binding—”

“Have you looked at him?” Falmouth’s voice is bitter. He kneels in the bracken and glances up at Wyn. “Whoever he was, there’s no coming back from this. He’s not the boy you knew anymore—Burleigh’s brought him to ruin, just like it will do to all the West Country if you unbind it, or let it have that stone. Do you know what I’m really doing here, Violet? I’msavingthe countryside from you and Burleigh House. From the reckless foolishness of Sterlings, who believe this place can be better than it is.”

I look at Wyn, and for a moment I see him as Falmouth does—as something made monstrous by Burleigh’s power. As someone past the point of no return.

But it’s only for a moment, and then my vision clears, and in spite of all his changes, I see only this when I look at Wyn: the friend of my childhood, and of my heart. Turning to the forest, already filling with smoke, and to the glimpse of the House between the trees, I don’t see ruin, either. I see something worth saving, no matter how far it’s fallen. No matter the things it’s done.

In the end, I suppose this is my gift and my curse—that however Burleigh or Wyn may change, however much damage theyinflict or suffer, they will always be lovely and worthy of love to me. And I will never stop fighting for them, or hoping for a world in which they are both whole and well.

I sit up, shedding leaves, and try getting to my feet, but my legs buckle. Once more I try to stand, and it does no good. I feel half made of stone myself, I’m so full of mortar, and somewhere inside me, the lead pistol shot scrapes against bone.

“She’s going to die,” the Duke of Falmouth says. “Why not make it quicker for her, Burleigh? You know this will only go one way—the girl was bound to failure from the start, as surely as you’ve been bound to the king and the boy’s been bound to you.”

“Shut up and don’t move.” However he may look, it’s Wyn speaking, not Burleigh.

“Or what? You’ll kill me and break your binding?” Falmouth retorts. “I don’t think you’d dare.”

Wyn ignores him.

“Violet, take out the heartstone,” Wyn says.

Mutely, I obey. But the moment I do I begin to bleed again, as the power of Burleigh’s missing piece leaches both blood and mortar from my veins. Wyn reaches out and places his own hand over the stone, still cupped in my palm.

I take in a trembling breath as warmth, rather than ice, spreads within me. I have never felt a magic like this before—one that suffuses my limbs with blissful well-being, and whispers of spring and rebirth. The lead ball works its way free of my bones, my sinew, my skin, and drops to the forest floor. The torn flesh left in its wake knits back together. Painstakingly slowly, a little of the ice begins to melt from my blood, mortar dripping from my fingertips andpooling beneath my feet.

Around us, too, the woods begin to green. Brambles recede. Bluebells carpet the ground in their wake and the nearest trees burst into summer life, hale and whole once more, except for those that are already in flames. I gaze on it all in wonderment.

“What is it?” I ask Wyn.

“House magic,” he says with a smile. “The way it’s meant to be.”

Anguish gnaws at me, though, because while it’s worked on everything else, the heartstone has done nothing for Wyn. Even as he smiles, there’s an emptiness behind his eyes, and I wonder how much more magic he can do before Burleigh claims the last of him, and he becomes nothing but an empty shell for the soul of the House.

But then the Duke of Falmouth turns, and the pistol’s in his hand once more.

“Alright, I’ve got to be going, so which of you is first?” he asks with that wolfish smile. “And if I shoot the boy, will anything actually happen?”

Wyn steps forward.

“Why don’t you try it, and find out?” he says softly, standing only a few paces from Falmouth.

The duke raises his pistol, but as he does, Wyn raises a hand, too. Not quickly, not aggressively, not as if he’s about to wrest the firearm away. Falmouth frowns as Wyn reaches out and touches one finger to his wrist.

That’s all it takes. A torrent of killing magic roars through Wyn and into Falmouth. The duke sinks to his knees, shaking like a leaf on the wind. For a moment, a cloud of smoke hides him fromview, but when the air clears again, I watch in horror as vines burst from his mouth, his eyes, his nose, his ears. He falls, and Burleigh’s ravenous greenery consumes him utterly.

“Wyn,” I choke, scrambling toward him. “Wyn, are you still there?”

He turns to me, and for the briefest moment, there’s a familiar light in Wyn’s eyes.

“I’m glad I was brave enough for you,” he says.

Then the last of that light leaves him. When I reach out and brush a hand against his face, there’s no feeling of waiting, of temporary absence. Not the faintest spark.

“Wyn, come back,” I beg, taking his face in my hands. “It’s Violet—please, come back to me.”

But only Burleigh remains.