A Treason of Thorns Read online

  “I’m sorry, Violet,” he says, though there’s little in the way of remorse in his eyes. “The law is the law, and your father broke it. I never pegged him for the sort who’d be weak enough to insist a child bear his punishment as well, though. Funny about the boy.”

  “Shut up,” I hiss, infusing the words with every ounce of venom my ten-year-old self can muster. “Just shut up. I never want to see you again.”

  “Now, now,” the king chides. “Is that any way to speak to your own godfather? Who’s going to look after you, if not me?”

  I step up to his carriage window, small and furious and heartbroken. “I have one father, and you’re killing him. I’d rather die than take your charity.”

  “Suit yourself,” the king says with a shrug. “But you’re still standing on my land. Burleigh, see Miss Sterling off the grounds.”

  A peal of thunder breaks overhead and suddenly I’m outside the front gate in the laneway, with Jed and Mira at my side. His Majesty’s coach has been transported as well, along with the royal guards. Through the rain and the ironwork of the gate, I can make out Papa and Wyn still standing on the House’s front steps.

  The king gets down from the carriage and walks over to the wall surrounding Burleigh’s grounds. When he reaches out a hand, the stonework trembles beneath his touch, but he is the deedholder—my father may be able to channel Burleigh’s magic, but it’s the king who truly controls it, who can bid and bind it, and the House cannot refuse him.

  “Burleigh House,” His Majesty says. “George Sterling has been found guilty of treason. I leave him to your care. Let no one in or out of these walls until he lies dead. No new Caretaker will be afforded you until his punishment is carried out.”

  The harsh, scraping sound of stone on stone grates through the air as the wall begins to fill in the space where the gate once stood. Dimly, I’m aware of Jed lurching forward and the guardsmen holding him back as he struggles toward the wall. I stare at Wyn’s distant form through the narrowing gap until the last inch closes. Then I turn to the king and spit at him as he passes me by.

  His Majesty pulls a clean white handkerchief from one pocket and wipes his face.

  “Someday, little Violet, you will come begging to me,” he says as he climbs back into the carriage. “You are your father’s daughter, and I know you. George won’t even be cold in his grave before you crawl back, asking for the key to Burleigh House. Sterlings never can resist this place.”

  “I’m a Caretaker,” I snap. “I was born to look after Burleigh, and yes, I will do whatever must be done to see it safe. A good Caretaker puts her House first, even if means begging favors from a monster like you.”

  The king shakes his head and reaches into his pocket, dangling a skeleton key before me. My breath catches at the sight of it—there’s a dull chip of grey stone set in the bow, and I’d recognize it anywhere. I’ve seen my father toy with it a thousand times in idle moments, and hold fast to it when he needed the protection of the guardstone while working House magic. I fight down the urge to snatch at it and run.

  “You’re not a Caretaker without a key, are you?” His Majesty says softly. “In fact, Burleigh House has no Caretaker now. We’ll see how long that lasts. How long before the House must deal with the fact that your father stands in the way of its well-being.”

  He tucks the key away and I stand by, staring at him belligerently, refusing to be the first to falter.

  “What a game we’ll have when all this is over, and you want the key.” The king smiles. “Don’t doubt that I will make you dance for it. That is, if I don’t give it to someone else first.”

  I have nothing to say to that. The idea of His Majesty giving Burleigh’s key to anyone else and forcing Burleigh to accept a stranger as Caretaker pours ice through my veins. I watch as the carriage pulls away, the king’s guardsmen marching in its wake. The wall surrounding Burleigh House is unbroken and impermeable stone now. Jed stands near the place where the gate used to be, shoulders slumped in defeat.

  I take a few steps up onto the grassy verge and rest my forehead against Burleigh’s wall, once the boundary of my world and now a prison.

  “Look after him,” I say to the House. I feel empty and hollow, as if there’s nothing inside me but grey fog. “I know you can’t do anything for Papa, and you’re not meant to care for anyone but yourself. Perhaps I shouldn’t even ask—maybe a good Caretaker wouldn’t. But, oh, Burleigh, if you can, look after Wyn. And someday I promise I’ll be back to look after you.”

  “Vi!”

  Mira jolts me out of my remembering, appearing flushed and worried at the top of the loft’s ladder.

  “Child, what on earth is taking you so—” She catches sight of the open chest and softens. “I’m sorry. But you should eat something, even if you are feeling a bit out of sorts.”

  “Maybe just a cup of tea? I’ll be down directly.”

  When she’s gone, I glance at the sprig of ivy in my hand. Impossibly, it’s flushed green once more, the leaves waxy and alive, so fresh it might have just been cut from the vine. I press the token to my lips and manage a small, mirthless smile.

  “Soon, Burleigh,” I murmur. “I’ll be home soon.”

  The ivy goes grey, and I feel the faintest prickle of magic as mortar suffuses the leaves. In a moment, they’ve lost their shape entirely, leaving my palm gritty with dust and smelling of old stone. A little tendril of pain and fear curls through my skin.

  My homegoing can’t come soon enough. I won’t let anyone, not even a king, stand in my way.

  3

  THISWICK, THE NEAREST VILLAGE TO OUR COTTAGE, WAS built near a crossroads. It sees plenty of travelers, which means the Knight’s Arms is crowded at noon, my appointed meeting time with His Majesty. I push my way into the cavernous public room and cast about myself, looking for royal uniforms, or the king’s familiar face.

  Through a doorway that leads to the inn’s private dining space, I catch a glimpse of red livery. Of course His Majesty wouldn’t be out here, eating with common folk—foolish of me to think he would. Surreptitiously rubbing my damp palms against my skirt, I shove past merchants and sailors and tinkers, only to have Dex, the proprietor of the Knight’s Arms, stop me at the door to the private room. He’s a tall, broad-shouldered man, with an amiable smile and a purple birthmark that stands out against one white cheek.

  “Are you sure you want to go in there, Vi?” Dex asks. He’s known since we first arrived who I am and why I’m here, worlds away from Burleigh House. Sometimes I think all of England’s party to my sad family affairs. Especially in the West Country, where they say folk keep calendars marking the days since Papa’s arrest, and drink to his health every night instead of the king’s.

  Who will they drink to now, I wonder?

  I square my shoulders. “No, I’m not sure. But I have to do it anyway—the king said he has news about the House. About my father.”

  Dex lets out a long breath and nods. “So it’s finally come to that. I’m sorry. We all are. I’ll be about if you need anything.”

  “Thank you, Dex.” Before my nerves can fail me, I cross the threshold into the private dining hall.

  The inn staff have been dispensed with in favor of the king’s own liveried servants, who stand quietly along the wall, ready to step forward at the slightest indication they’re wanted. A handful of courtiers sit at the table, fearfully au courant in ribbons and lace, the women wearing flimsy dresses with waistlines that nip up under their breasts, the men in frock coats and breeches and garishly colored cravats. I wonder if this is how I would look, had my life gone differently—bright and unmarked by grief, fashionable and sharp as tacks.

  As it is, I’m drab and downcast by comparison, in my plain wool-spun shirt and often-patched skirt. Like a reed bunting beside kingfishers. But none of it matters. I have no pride, no position, and no place left to me. I’ve come to hear the worst, to ask after Burleigh House, and, as the king knew I would, to beg for a chance t
o go home.

  His Majesty sits at the head of the table with a plate of dainties before him and a bored expression on his face. He’s a lean, middle-aged man with shrewd dark eyes and a white complexion, pale from too much time spent indoors at his desk and the gaming tables.

  The sight of him chills me to the bone. It is a relic of the old medieval hostage system that he’s my godfather at all. Since the Great Houses were bound, Caretakers’ children have been placed under the guardianship of the reigning sovereign. A pretty thought at face value—the royal family serving those who serve the Houses. Truly, it is a ploy to ensure the loyalty of the Caretakers. His Majesty took an interest in me when I was small—sent gifts, and would stop at Burleigh House whenever he passed by. He taught me to play cards, and I spent my childhood convinced he and Papa were friends.

  But none of that familiarity and feigned friendship was enough to ensure mercy for my father, or clemency for me once Papa’s great crime was uncovered.

  I will make you dance, His Majesty said. Well, here I am. Will it be a waltz, or a gavotte?

  Hiding my hands behind my back so the king won’t see how they tremble, I step closer to the table and clear my throat. One of the courtiers is twittering away, and I go unnoticed.

  I reach for anger rather than fear, but can’t quite find it. Sterling stubbornness will have to suffice.

  “Uncle Edgar,” I say, loud enough that everyone in the room can hear. The courtiers fall silent, and their eyes widen at my decision to call him by the name I used when I was small. “You wanted to see me?”

  A delighted smile replaces the king’s look of boredom. With a loud scrape he pushes his chair back, and I will myself not to falter as he puts a hand on each of my shoulders and presses a kiss to my cheek. “Violet Sterling, where is the pretty child I knew? You look like an absolute fishwife. What would your father think?”

  The courtiers giggle, assured that their pleasant day will carry on much as it has done, and that my intrusion will cause no trouble. But somewhere within me, music has begun. If I’m to dance for my House, I mean to lead, not to follow.

  So I step past the king and drop into his chair at the head of the table. The silly laughter of the courtiers dies down. His Majesty raises a disapproving eyebrow and snaps two fingers together.

  One of the waiting servants hurries up with another chair. The king takes a seat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, as the courtiers pick up their silverware once more, pretending their attention isn’t fixed on the head of the table, on me and His Majesty.

  “Not a single kind word for your godfather?” the king chides. “Have you lost your manners out here on this bog? I didn’t expect to ask for a royal visit only to find you sulking.”

  “I’m not sulking, Your Majesty,” I say. “I’m grieving. I will always be grieving. You took everything from me, and tormented my family’s House in the process.”

  Covert glances fly between the courtiers. Perhaps their day won’t be as pleasant and dull, but it has become more interesting.

  Something like remorse crosses the king’s shrewd face. “Violet, do you think it brought me joy to sentence your father to House arrest, or to receive the news that his confinement had finally ended? George was a friend, and the finest Caretaker I’ve known. I thought the world of him until he betrayed me. The deeds to the Houses are my family’s birthright—they’ve been so for eight hundred years, and yet he tried to steal Burleigh’s from me. One cannot simply ignore that. Nevertheless, it pains me to have lost him, too.”

  So it is as I expected. My father is dead. I look past His Majesty, out the dining room’s long bank of windows toward the fens I’ve come to know. Familiar in all their aspects, but never, never my home. I don’t know who I miss more in this moment—Papa, or Wyn, or Burleigh.

  “How did it happen? The end of the arrest, I mean,” I ask, because there is no use arguing over the king’s version of Papa’s conviction. We will always be at odds about it. What Uncle Edgar calls treason, I call a Caretaker’s duty to put one’s House first, because Papa would never have risked trying for Burleigh’s deed unless the House had need of it.

  The king reaches out and pats my hand, and I resist the urge to pull away.

  “You know I’ve been in Belgium for several months,” he says. “I bound the Houses to obey the duke of Falmouth in my absence. He sent surveyors to Burleigh twice, to ensure everything was going smoothly. They found the gate had appeared in the wall again, and knew the arrest must have ended, but the House refused to let them in. Falmouth had to go down to Somersetshire himself, and even then the House tried to go against its binding to obey him. It tried to keep Falmouth out, but when he eventually got in, he found your father. Evidently George had been working House magic without the protection of the key, which is what killed him in the end. That’s how he was able to prolong the arrest the way he did—anytime the House’s magic built up and threatened to wreak havoc without a Caretaker to put it to good use, your father siphoned it off himself.”

  His Majesty tuts dramatically. “What an unpleasant way to die.”

  I ball my hands into fists beneath the table and press, nails digging into soft skin. I need the small pain it brings, to distract me from a larger agony blossoming inside. It’s not just unpleasant, death by House magic. It’s slow and messy and gruesome. And though I cannot think on it now, I can feel that a bright and vital part of me has been ruined by this news. Something young and yielding and fragile has fallen apart within my soul, crumbling into countless irreparable pieces.

  A little House magic, a little mortar in your veins, is unpleasant but won’t do too much harm. It’ll be carried off into your blood and diluted, but never really leave you. Add a little more and perhaps it’ll shorten your life—shave five or ten years off when you’re weak with old age and start coughing up grey matter. It’s the mortar that comes back to haunt you, settling in your lungs.

  Add more magic still and you may die younger, taken with fits or with madness or with heart failure, as the leftovers of the mortar you’ve absorbed find their way to your heart or your brain. Take in enough at once and it will kill you outright, suffusing your veins, flooding your body with poison.

  But whether you’re exposed to a great deal or a little, whether you allow yourself time between doses or not, mortar stays with you. Every bit you add only brings your death nearer. That’s why the Caretaker’s keys were made—no one’s ever explained to me how their magic works, but they allow their bearer to channel mortar without being harmed. So long as you hold a Caretaker’s key, House magic passes through you without a drop of mortar staying behind. You can do wondrous things with a Caretaker’s key—mend your House, mend the land, work the weather, encourage the crops.

  That’s why I’m here. It’s not just to hear the truth of my father’s death—I’m all Burleigh has left now and I need that key. There’s no one but me to speak for my House, and no one else who ought to be Caretaker now Papa’s gone.

  But I won’t let the king see how badly I need this.

  “What about Wyn?” I ask instead of mentioning the key, though I’m terrified of the answer I may hear. “What’s happened to my father’s ward?”

  The king lifts an indifferent shoulder. “They said there was no sign of the boy. What that means, only Burleigh House knows. Look, now all this is over, can’t we let bygones be bygones, Vi? Chalk it up to a misunderstanding and start again?”

  “Do you even hear yourself when you speak?” I ask in disbelief, voice made sharp by the grief I hide. “You sentenced my father to a living death and forced my House to carry out the punishment. The only friend I had is missing, and very probably dead because of your actions. Do any of those sound like forgivable offenses?”

  I’m meant to be dancing, but here I am, intentionally treading on my partner’s toes. One of the courtiers, a golden-skinned girl with a mass of loose dark curls, coughs into her handkerchief. I favor her with a vicious smile, all fen
predator on the outside when inside I’m still flighty as a marsh hen.

  “Did you enjoy the soup course?” I ask her. “I killed the pike myself—stabbed it through the heart this morning.”

  The girl dabs at her mouth and sets her kerchief aside. “Well, that explains the aftertaste of rancor. You’re quite a feral thing, aren’t you?”

  His Majesty smiles fondly at the two of us, as if we’re a pair of children sitting down to tea with our dolls. “Violet, I don’t think you’ve had the pleasure of making my daughter and heir’s acquaintance before. This is Esperanza, Princess of Wales.”

  Behave, Violet, I chide myself. Behave. But my own unspent emotions have me bitter and reckless. “Oh, there’s two of you? How delightful.”

  “You were absolutely right about her, Father,” Esperanza says, smiling affectionately at the king. “She’s prickly as a hedgehog. What fun the three of us could have.”

  Now I know they’re connected, I can see the similarities between the two of them, though the king is far paler than his daughter. They both have a habit of tilting their head to one side when contemplating a problem—in this case, me. Their dark eyes both spark with a sharp and intent curiosity. And they both seem determined to run rings around one Violet Helena Sterling.

  The king beckons to a footman to bring him a pudding. “Do you hear from your mother often?” he asks me, and I’m sure to an outsider his display of interest seems genuine. “I must say, I was surprised to hear you’d taken up residence in this swamp when I turned you out of Burleigh House. I thought you’d have gone to her. Where was it she ended up after the divorce? Austria? Germany?”

  “Switzerland.” I can’t disguise the venom in my answer. “She lives in a chateau now, and has two little boys. She writes once a year, at Christmas. I’d rather die than go to her.”

  The king smiles, a beatific expression that looks entirely incongruous on his clever face. “How you do hold a grudge. Fortunately Switzerland should never be necessary, as you’ve been blessed with a doting godfather, who intends to start taking an interest in you again.”