Page 90 of A Treason of Thorns

I drop to my knees in the mud of the laneway, wrap my arms around my middle, and sob. I’ve proved myself the greatest of all Caretakers, and bought Burleigh House its freedom against all odds.

In spite of king.

In spite of country.

In spite of my own heart.

But oh, Burleigh. At what cost?

At what cost?

33

I DRIFT IN AND OUT OF SLEEP AS JED AND MIRA ARGUEwith Frey at my bedside, tucked away in a little room under the Red Shilling’s eaves.

“She’s ours,” Mira begs. “Let us take her home.”

“That cot you’ve rented is hardly big enough for the two of you as it is,” Frey says staunchly. “And it isn’t home to Vi. You know where her home is. Let her stay here, in a place she knows.”

Jed is the one who kneels beside the bed and takes my hand.

“Violet, my love. What do you think?”

I’m too tired to answer. And I don’t care about any of it, or anything. I’m lost in the same fog they tell me still envelops the House, though it’s been two weeks since I set Burleigh free.

In the end, I stay at the inn. Mira comes to sit next to me in the afternoons and evenings when Frey oversees things. The rest of the time, Frey herself keeps watch, sleeping on a pallet across the room. They’re all worried, I know, but I can’t summon the energy to take an interest or care. I sleep and sleep, waking only to take cups of broth or to use the chamber pot. Even the plate of autumnvegetables and stewed apples and warm bread that Mira brings me over Rosh Hashanah is not enough to tempt me.

Then one morning I wake to a robin singing outside the attic window, and realize the leaves of the branch he perches on have turned to gold.

“Frey?”

She’s by my side in a moment.

“Are things alright, with the West Country? How will everyone fare over winter?”

Frey squeezes my hand. “There were plenty of folk expecting to starve, if you want the truth. But the day you walked out of that House, every apple tree in the West Country started a second bloom and every heifer and ewe dropped twins. No one’s ever seen the like. The lambs and calves and apples have all grown up at a fearful rate, too—they started pressing cider last week, and the markets are full of stock.”

“What about the king? He just... left, after I came out from the House. But before, he’d planned to charge me with treason.”

“He’s back at Hampton Court,” Frey says. “Espie’s gone with him, to make sure he doesn’t get any ideas about renewing those charges. But I doubt there’s any danger of that, not with the West Country in better shape than it’s ever been before. If he laid a finger on you, there’d be riots in the streets. And I hear His Majesty’s at a bit of a loose end, without Falmouth to manage things for him, but that Esperanza’s taken over very capably.”

“I’m sure she has,” I say with a faint smile.

“Do you know what they drink to downstairs every night now?” Frey asks. I can feel myself flush under her close scrutiny. “To VioletSterling, the bond breaker, and to Burleigh House restored.”

“And Burleigh?”

Frey turns, so I can’t look her in the eyes. “Shut up tight, and showing no sign of opening its gate again. I’m sorry.”

I don’t ask after Wyn. I can’t bring myself to speak his name. That wound is still too raw, and I’m not sure it will ever really heal. This is everything you once wanted, I remind myself. To see your House whole and well and free.

But inside me there is an endless sea, not of fear, but of grief, and I cannot push it back or confine it, no matter how hard I try.

At last, I find the will to get out of bed. And every afternoon I walk the scant mile to Burleigh House, though it takes me longer than it should to make the trip. I sit on the verge beside the lane and watch the meadow grasses go from gold to brown, the hedgerows sprouting red berries and gilded leaves. When the first frost comes and the afternoon air begins to bite, I wrap myself in a thick wool cloak, but I still make the journey.

Even now, with the walls impenetrable and the gate shut to me, I can’t help being drawn back to my House.

Hanukkah comes and goes. But Mira’s latkes and Jed singing “Maoz Tzur” in his deep bass voice are hollow joys this year. Christmas I keep with Frey and her son and daughter-in-law, who make the trip down from London. There’s a tree in the public room of the inn and we sing carols with guests who happen to be traveling over Christmastide. Or rather, everyone else sings, and I stand mute, the music washing over me like a river parting around heartless stone.