A Treason of Thorns Read online

  Dedication

  For Steph, who is Caretaker of this book.

  And for the Pod, who are Caretakers of me.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Laura E. Weymouth

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  A LACE-TRIMMED WEDDING INVITATION SITS ON MY nightstand and I know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Mama is not coming back. It was inevitable, but so far in life, ignoring the inevitable has always been easy for me.

  Until now.

  There’s no avoiding the truth anymore. There it is, stamped in gold ink, wafting the lingering traces of rose-scented eau de toilette toward me.

  Curled up on my side in bed, I stare at the invitation as if it’s a snake.

  “Violet.” Wyn, my father’s ward, calls softly from the other side of the bedroom door. “Can I come in?”

  He may not be able to see me nod, but the House can. There’s a click as it turns back the lock and a gentle scrape of hinges as it swings the door wide. I glance over and see Wyn crossing the room carefully, holding a cup of water with two hands so as not to spill. He’s always walked so since coming to Burleigh House—as if the ground beneath his feet is strewn with invisible bits of broken glass, and he might damage himself with a single wrong step.

  Wyn sets the cup down on my nightstand, in front of Mama’s invitation, so that the print looks strange and distorted when seen through the glass. We may both be only eight and surrounded by servants—Jed and Mira, Papa’s steward and housekeeper, are never far off—but even as children this is what we do. We look after each other.

  As Wyn takes a seat at my side, the comforting ivy Burleigh House has blanketed me with rustles and pulls away from him—they’ve never got on that well, Burleigh and Wyn. Flames flare deep purple on the hearth and the lamplight glows in the same shade. Poor old House—it hates to see me unhappy just as much as Wyn does. I sometimes forget in these moments when Burleigh’s so kind and solicitous that it’s one of the five Great Houses, whose vast magic governs the well-being of England. To me, my House has always been both more and less than that. Burleigh, like Wyn, is simply this: both family, and a friend.

  Wyn shifts, putting a little more space between himself and Burleigh’s retreating leaves. If he were anyone else, he’d ask if I’m alright. But Wyn’s been a quiet child since the day Papa brought him back to Burleigh House from a Taunton foundling home. Which is just as well, if you ask me—I’ve never seen much use in endlessly worrying over troubles. I don’t want to talk about how Papa’s gone yet again, off in London on House business. I don’t want to talk about how Burleigh House’s fears have been seeping into me through the floors, and how sometimes they make my heart pound so fast I can hardly breathe.

  I absolutely do not want to talk about Mama.

  Instead, I hug my legs tighter, wishing to make myself so small I’ll disappear. Wyn looks down at me, solemn and wide-eyed. I know he and the House will stay with me all night and dog my steps tomorrow. They never abandon me, at any rate. The House will wrap me in flowers and lull me to sleep with nightingale song, and Wyn—well. Wyn never sleeps in his own bed. He prefers a pile of blankets and a pillow in my airing cupboard.

  I can’t help but remember what Mama thought about all of this. My mother and father fought about everything, but the way I feel about Burleigh and Wyn came up often.

  “She should put the House first, Eloise,” Papa would say. “Vi will be Caretaker of this place when she’s grown. Burleigh will choose her, I’ll pass on the key when I’m ready, and His Majesty will certainly approve of the arrangement—you know the king’s always taken an interest in Vi. This is who she’s meant to be.”

  “She doesn’t know who she is now, let alone who she ought to be in the future,” Mama always argued back. “And how will she ever sort herself out if you keep her tethered to Burleigh House and never let her be with ordinary children?”

  “Wyn keeps her company.”

  “He is not an ordinary child.”

  They’d go on and on like that, in endless circles, arguing behind closed doors. Perhaps they didn’t know Wyn and I sat outside listening, or perhaps they were past caring.

  But now all the fighting has come to an end, and Mama’s off in Switzerland, planning her second wedding to some foreign baron.

  “Wyn.” I sit up and look at him. I need to know that all this is worth it. I need to know that no matter what I’ve lost, I’ve lost it for the greater good.

  “Yes?” he says, all untidy sandy hair and serious grey eyes.

  “Do you think I’ll be a good Caretaker for Burleigh House?”

  Wyn doesn’t answer. He fixes his gaze on the blanket of ivy still covering my bed, except for the conspicuously empty space around him.

  “A good Caretaker puts her House first,” I say, half to myself.

  “Always?” Wyn asks.

  I reach out a hand and a strand of green ivy twines around my wrist, a near match for the latticework birthmark of slick pink skin that stamps me there, like a bracelet. “Always. Papa says so—a good Caretaker puts her House before king. Before country. Before family. Before her own life, even.”

  “But what if you change your mind?”

  Now that is unthinkable. Mama may leave, I may grow up, but the one thing that will never change is my resolve to serve Burleigh House. My father, George Sterling, is a perfect Caretaker, and in the rare moments when he’s at home, he sees to it that I learn my place. That one day I’ll follow after him: the best Caretaker England has ever known. Under Papa’s watchful tenure, Burleigh has thrived. The counties our House governs have known peace and prosperity.

  “I will never change my mind,” I tell Wyn. “I’ll put Burleigh first all my life, because this place is greater than you or me or any one person.”

  And though I’ve learned this lesson by rote under the watchful eye of my stern father, my heart still swells when I repeat it. For as long as I can remember, Burleigh has been everything to me. This House is like a mother, father, comforter, and friend. I intend to repay the favor someday, when I’m able.

  “We may not understand the House, we may not be able to speak with it, but Burleigh House was here watching over the West Country before you or I were born, and it will be here long after we’re gone. It is my duty as a Sterling to serve this place, and to help it care for the countryside. Mama knew that, Wyn. She knew it. But she was always jealous of Burleigh. She couldn’t see why it’s worth looking after.” I stop and swallow fiercely, past the heat burning in the back of my throat and behind my eyes.

  Wyn stares down at the floor, looking as small and miserable as I feel.


  “And what about a good House?” he asks after a long silence. I frown as he plucks an ivy leaf and shreds it to bits. “What does a good House do? Shouldn’t you get something in return?”

  I run a finger across the ivy, soothing the place where Wyn marred it, and the leaves turn to my touch like flowers toward sun. “I don’t expect anything. A good House puts itself first, because the well-being of the countryside is bound up in the health of its House. And so a good House chooses its Caretaker wisely, and doesn’t spare them when trouble comes.”

  The fire flickers on the hearth, as if to confirm my words.

  “Violet.”

  When I glance up at Wyn, the expression in his eyes makes my stomach clench. He always looks just so—restless, ill at ease, like an animal poised for flight—before making the suggestion I know is coming. “Let’s run away. You don’t have to stay here, or be a Caretaker, if you don’t want to. We could go to Switzerland, to your mother. Or somewhere else—you can choose, just . . . let’s leave.”

  Wind moans in the chimney, like a sob, and the ivy on my bed begins to recede, sliding sadly away toward the windows it crept in through. Out of habit and out of practice, all my self-pity shifts as my heart goes out to Burleigh House.

  “You shouldn’t say such things,” I tell Wyn, my tone a reproach. “You know I’ll never go, and you know even talking about leaving upsets Burleigh.”

  Wyn hangs his head and looks so woebegone I don’t know who I feel for more—him, or my keening House.

  “Oh, stop it, Burleigh,” I say, and the wailing wind subsides even as I speak. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  But it’s Wyn who I throw my arms around, and he relaxes just a little. As much as Wyn ever does, at any rate.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” he whispers, and I hold him tighter.

  “I’m not.” The words come out so fiercely I almost believe them. “I’m not, I’m not. I’ve got you and Burleigh, and Papa when he’s not working on House business. What more could I possibly want?”

  After Wyn climbs off the bed and retreats to his makeshift cot in the cupboard, I get up. Opening the drawer in the nightstand, I pull out a letter Mama enclosed with the wedding invitation. It carries even more of her scent than the invitation itself, and I breathe in that aroma of roses, remembering the feel of her arms around me.

  One sentence stands out, for the ink has run and spotted, as if tears were shed when it was written.

  Come to me, my Violet—let me make a home for you here.

  But I have a home. I am a Sterling—I was born on the grounds of Burleigh House, and someday, I hope to be as brilliant a Caretaker as Papa.

  A good Caretaker puts her House first. Before king, before country.

  Before family.

  Kneeling next to the hearth, I feed Mama’s letter to the sympathetic flames, which shift to blue as I scrub the sleeve of my nightgown across my eyes.

  “Think about something else. Anything else. It helps,” Wyn’s voice says from the shadows of the cupboard.

  I take a shaky breath and begin to hum. It’s a song Papa always sings for me when he’s at home.

  Blood for a beginning

  Mortar for an end

  Speak out your binding

  Be you foe or friend

  Take up the deed

  Take it well in hand

  And bind a House’s power

  Bind it to the land

  Blood for an ending

  Mortar for a start

  Unmake a binding

  At your House’s heart

  Unleash a House’s power

  Let it all run free

  Leave naught for the king

  Naught for you or me

  First House for a prison

  Second for ladies’ rest

  Third for a palace

  Fourth to be blessed

  Fifth House holds quicksilver

  The Sixth ruins all

  But for blood in its mortar

  But for breath in its walls

  But this time it doesn’t have the usual effect, not even when I fix my mind on the words.

  All I see is Mama’s handwriting. All I can think of is the fact that she’s never coming back.

  “Once upon a time there was a Great House,” I begin somewhat desperately. I haven’t told Wyn a story in over a year, not since he grew used to life here at Burleigh. But it grounds me, the sound of him settling in to listen, and the feeling of the immense, brooding presence that is my beloved Burleigh turning its attention in my direction. “There were the Sterlings, too, who lived and died for it. Their blood ran with its mortar. Their bones rested in its ground.”

  When I turn away from the fireplace, every inch of the bedroom floor is carpeted with new-sprouted daisies. Slowly, I lock up the sadness of my mother’s leaving deep inside, because I know I would give anything for this place. One day, my blood will run with its mortar. One day, my bones will rest in its ground.

  1

  Nine Years Later

  BENEATH ME, THE FLAT BOTTOM OF MY BOAT THRUMS ever so slightly as a fenland pike bumps against it. The long, gleaming creature is focused on its fishy business, and I’ve been motionless for near an hour, letting gentle currents in the marsh water carry me this way and that. I’m all but invisible to the pike, and an invisible fisher is a successful one.

  Sun beats down on my bare head, and heats the long rope of my braid. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades and down my raised arm, which holds a sharp-tipped fishing spear aloft. This is the one thing that affords me relief—this moment where everything comes together and all of me fixes on a single goal. I’m no longer Violet Sterling, dispossessed daughter of a treasonous nobleman, too long separated from her family home. All the aching worry over Papa and Wyn and my House recedes, and I become whole instead of fractured—Vi of the Fens, who never ends the day empty-handed.

  In this moment, I distill into my most elemental self. A level head. A keen set of eyes. A pair of hands that move like quicksilver, or summer lightning. The fish turns over on its side, exposing a glistening expanse of scales.

  In an explosion of spear and net and brackish water, I haul the pike aboard. It thrashes ferociously and the boat rocks, but a quick blow from the hatchet I keep under my low seat puts an end to that. Shoving my braid back over one shoulder, I finally allow myself to grin, to wipe the sweat from my forehead, and to feel that my nose has burned terribly yet again. It’ll peel and freckle, and Mira will scold, but so be it. We’ll eat for half a week thanks to this fish. And in this moment of clarity I’ve found a way to shed the creeping anxiety that’s plagued me these past years. At least for a little while.

  But even as I straighten and stand above my catch, the sense returns—that I am too far from home, but still bound to it by a long, taut stretch of line. It’s not just Burleigh I can’t get past, either.

  “What do you think of that, Wyn?” I murmur. I only indulge the habit of speaking to him when I’m alone on the fens, careful to make sure no one hears. God knows who actually talks to Wyn now—who takes his silences and his moods into account, who lets him stay close when the night is too long and too dark, full of noises and shadows that remind him of things he’ll never speak of. I hope it helps, that I send my voice to him when I can.

  With the trackless expanse of the East Fen surrounding me, there’s only a miry waste of bogs and silt deposits and tidal estuaries to hear my secret conversations. In places, the land’s been shored up and laid to pasture, so that farmhouses and sheep enclosures stand out incongruously against the marshland. It’s all a jumble and a maze, but I know this place better than any other save one. The currents speak a language I’ve learned, the seabirds call to me, and the brassy blue sky above is a map waiting to be read. The marshes are honest, if you understand them, and they always play by their own particular set of rules.

  But they are not the West Country, which encompasses the five most southwesterly of England’s
counties, and which Burleigh House nurtures and governs. This land is wide and flat and straightforward in its wildness. It’s unlike the Blackdown Hills I grew up among, which look tame at first, checkered with enclosed pastures and apple orchards, but which hide old shrines in their valleys and bone-wrought charms in their hedgerows. And nothing could compare to Burleigh’s strange, enchanted grounds. The truth is, though I take up the oars and begin sculling back to shore, it doesn’t feel like heading for home. It never does.

  By the time I make it back to our little cottage on a raised hump of land in the middle of absolutely nowhere, the light’s growing long and golden away inland. Mira has the shutters thrown open, and Jed sits on the front stoop whittling. He wasn’t a whittler before our exile, but I suppose I wasn’t much of a fisherwoman, either.

  “Find your luck, then?” Jed asks as I tie the boat to our bit of dock. In answer, I sling the pike up, and it takes two hands for me to lift it.

  Jed lets out a low whistle. He’s a thickset, bearded man with a florid white complexion and close-cropped hair that long ago went grey, and though he’s stood by me through good times and bad, I love him best for how he was with my father. There never was a more devoted steward, whether Papa was present or absent. When the king sentenced my father to House arrest, it took six men to hold Jed back. He shouted and struggled as they sealed George Sterling away behind Burleigh’s walls, and he never stopped fighting, not till the front gate vanished, replaced by unbreachable stone.

  “Mira’s waiting inside,” Jed says. “She’s—we—have something you need to hear.”

  I can feel the smile fade from my face at his words. “What—”

  But before I’m able to ask, Mira’s voice calls from within the cottage, cutting me off. “Bring that fish in here at once and wash the stink of it off your hands.”

  As I step into the close confines of the cottage, she tuts at me. “I expected you home hours ago.”

  Mira does rule us with a bit of an iron fist, but Jed and I would be lost without her. We’re a family—an odd one, to be sure, but time and tide have bound us together and it would break my heart to lose them.

  I cross the cottage’s tiny downstairs room—just the one space for cooking and eating and living, with a curtain drawn across the nook that holds Jed and Mira’s bed. A ladder leads up to a loft for me, and that’s all there is to it.