Page 91 of A Treason of Thorns

When the holidays pass, I resume my vigil outside BurleighHouse, sitting with my back to the wall, dozing in thin winter sunshine, listening to the wind over the frozen fields.

And one day, one entirely ordinary day in mid-January, I wake from a fitful sleep outside Burleigh’s walls and find a bluebell has sprouted between my fingers. I glance over to the wrought-iron gate and slowly, soundlessly, it swings open.

Getting to my feet, I walk over and stand on the very brink of Burleigh’s grounds.

The House is visible again, all the mist that shrouded it burned away. It looks just as it once did, when I was a child. Warm stone. Leaded glass windows. Gardens dreaming of spring under their cover of frost. Wood smoke even spirals up from the chimneys, scenting the air. It looks and smells andfeelslike home.

“Wyn?” I ask, my voice carrying far in the cold and the silence. “Are you there?”

Only the birds in the hedgerows answer. And when I step away, I know I ought not to come back to Burleigh House again. I may be well enough in body, but so long as I keep returning, I will never be well in spirit.

When an early thaw hits, turning all the world to mud and sleet, I begin to think it’s time to take my leave, not just of Burleigh House, but of the Halt as well. I wait tables as I try to make up my mind, and while most of my pay comes in the form of room and board, what coin I do get I put aside.

Frey’s careful with me, watching closely, as if I’ve grown breakable since freeing the House. Perhaps she’s right. Some days, everything seems fine. But others, I feel like a snapped reed, unableto stand on my own. I can’t shake the temptation to slip out each night, after the inn has closed and the last of the evening’s patrons wander home. To take the familiar north lane, until I reach the walls of Burleigh House. Once there, I run my fingers along smooth stone, returning time and again to the iron gate, where I stand on the threshold and speak into the hush of Burleigh at rest.

Wyn. Are you there?

Ash Wednesday is the day I settle on. It’s before Purim this year, and I don’t think I could smile through a celebration with Jed and Mira. I’ll go back to the fens, I think, where life was simpler and where I knew my way. When I tell Frey, her eyes are kind.

“I understand, Violet. You’ll write, though, won’t you?”

Mira bakes as if there’s no food to be had in Lincolnshire, and Jed whittles morosely, carving me little replicas of all the marsh birds. Though they’ve offered to come with me, I insist on going alone. They’ve made a life here again, renting a cottage at the edge of Longhill Farm, where Jed still day labors and Mira takes in washing and mending. I will not uproot them a third time on my behalf, though I’ll miss them desperately.

I don’t write to Espie to tell her that I’m leaving. She writes to me, though, to say that all of London is in a stir over what’s happened with Burleigh House. There are riots in the streets after all, though I face no charges for what I’ve done. Everyone wants freedom for the remaining four Houses, now Burleigh’s unbinding has proved a success, and they’re not keeping quiet about it.

The last shift I’m to work at the Shilling comes at once too slowly and too soon. As always, I’m kept running across the tavern with trays of frothy mugs that smell of yeast and hops. I’m busy, atleast, and it’s a comfort. When I do manage a moment of self-reflection, I remind myself of this: the West Country is prospering. The weather has been just what it ought. Larders are full enough from the fall harvest to last two winters, rather than just one.

My House is well, as is the countryside. What more could a Caretaker want?

And yet.

Late in the evening, the inn door opens with a bang and a gust of wind that’s still cold after dark. Shouts to close it come from the gathered farmers and I glance up to see a figure shutting the door. He crosses the tavern and sits at the long counter, where he sheds his coat.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” I sing out. By the time I manage to get behind the counter with an empty tray, I’m breathless and red-faced.

“Can I help you?” I ask, and stop short.

“Hello, Vi,” Wyn says.

For a moment we just stare at each other, and then he smiles. I’d nearly forgotten how a smile pulls his mouth up further on one side than the other, and how he squints just the slightest bit.

“Have you been well?” Wyn asks.

“Well enough,” I say slowly. I’m not sure any of this is real. It seems too much like one of the muddled dreams I had last summer, while desperately working to free the House. But someone shouts for another drink, and my unconscious certainly never dwelled much on tipsy West Country farmers.

I turn with my hands on my hips. “Shut it, I’ll be with you in a minute!”

“Sorry.” I turn back to Wyn, still in shock. “And... and you? You’re alright? Burleigh, too?”

“We are. It’s taken a while, getting things sorted out, but both of us are well, and we’re each of us in one piece, as you can see.”

I steal looks at him in between polishing glasses. My hands are shaking, though, and I’m afraid of breaking something, so at last I set my rag down and give up the pretext of busyness.

“Wyn, I thought you were dead.”

“So did I,” he says frankly. “Until I realized there was clearly enough of me left alive to think it. And then I started coming back to myself, piece by piece. It took ages, though. I suppose even Burleigh unbound has a hard time working miracles.”

Wyn smiles again, and my knees go weak. The florid-faced farmer calling for drinks is growing insistent, and I round on him to hide the tears pricking behind my eyes. “Harry Mason! Shutupor get it yourself!”