In just a few days, my second novel, A Treason of Thorns, will have been in the world for a year. October will mark the second anniversary of the publication of my first book, The Light Between Worlds. So to celebrate, I’ve started drafting a little crossover fiction about the characters and worlds of those two books. I may leave it as is, or I may add to it–I’m not sure yet. Either way, I thought I’d post it here for those of you who loved the Hapwells and Burleigh House.
The House of Ruin and Starlight
A Short Fiction
by Yours Truly
“Oh Jack, I don’t know about this,” Mum said doubtfully as we parked in the lane and peered in at the front gate of the House. I was already thinking about it like that—as the House, with a capital H. Dad had shown me grainy newspaper photographs of it, and it demanded to be set apart, somehow, from the more ordinary country homes we’d looked over.
Hence the capital.
Putting his arm around Mum’s shoulders, Dad kissed the top of her head, but he was looking down the weed-choked gravel drive ahead of us. I could see it on his face already—the anticipation he felt when something derelict and once-beautiful fell into his care. He loved damaged things, and of all the chocolate box cottages and friendly stone rowhouses we’d looked at, the House was by far the most broken.
It was enormous, to start with. Or enormous by my standards, having only ever lived in London flats. There were acres of walled grounds, and at the center of them the House itself, expansive and forlorn. A fire had burned out the entirety of the east wing in the 1880s, which seemed an impossibly long time ago. But it had already been empty then, poor old building, friendless and familyless, just staring out at its unkempt grounds with blank windows, like so many sad eyes.
“Can I go in?” I asked eagerly, and Dad nodded, giving me his particular, you-and-I-understand-one-another-don’t-we-Evie smile.
But when I had my hand on the gate already, Mum stopped me.
“Evie, wait, we don’t even know if it’s safe,” she fretted. I glanced back at her, looking like a fashion-plate in her tailored skirt and jacket, somehow free of even a speck of dust despite the dirt laneway. Mum was not one of Dad’s damaged, once-beautiful things. She took your breath away to look at, and seemed untouchable if you didn’t know her well. But there was still damage. It just hid below her perfectly-crafted exterior.
“Alright, I can stay with you,” I offered immediately, even though I wanted nothing more than to get through that gate and nose around on my own. But Dad and I had an arrangement, not to worry Mum, and to treat her like something fine and precious and breakable. We were her safe haven, Dad said, in a world full of difficult reminders, and we mustn’t trouble her if it could be avoided.
“The estate agent said that other than the east wing, everything’s fine structurally.” Dad sounded infinitely reassuring, and he’s very good at that sort of thing. At putting people at ease. “But we can’t even go inside today, I haven’t got a key. Just the grounds for now, and if that doesn’t scare us off, we can see the rest tomorrow. I think Evie’ll be alright to have a little wander.”
Mum faltered. “Well, if you think it’s fine, Jack.”
“I do.”
She gave me a hesitant smile. “Go on then, Evie. Run along.”
Stifling a squeal of delight, I pushed at the wrought-iron front gate. But though the House had stood empty for so long, the gate gave way easily, swinging open almost of its own accord. And then I was in, standing in the breathless silence of the manor grounds.
Burleigh House, Dad had called it.
“Hello, Burleigh,” I whispered. Wind rustled through the tall meadow grasses on either side of the drive, causing wildflowers to sway and bend. Reaching out, I ran a hand along the feathery tops of the grass and moved forward slowly, drinking in the country quiet—the little murmur of the breeze, the riot of birdsong coming from an overgrown tangle of apple orchard off to one side of the House. It was so very unlike the bustle of London. I felt as if I’d been waiting for such a place all my life.
“It’s an absolute heap,” I could hear Mum say despairingly behind me, followed by the murmur of Dad countering with practicalities—what sort of repairs would be necessary, how they might be afforded.
“Just think what it would be like at Christmas,” I cut in, turning to look at them and beaming. “We could have everyone to stay. Gran and Grandda and Mims (that’s Dad’s mum), and Uncle Jamie and Arthur (that’s Mum’s brother and his—companion? Not friend, they’re more than friends, and they’ve been together for years. I don’t know what sort of word I ought to use for the two of them, and the grown-ups never say, but I love them both, and they’re lovely together). Oh, we could even have Uncle Tom and Auntie Ella and the girls!”
Uncle Tom’s not really an uncle. He was someone to Mum’s sister, Evelyn, who went missing, and who I was named after. But he and his wife Auntie Ella are my godfather and godmother, and their children Ivy and Lena are as close as I’ll get to cousins. The idea of having all the people I loved together in one place set me fairly giddy with excitement.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Mum warned. “And don’t get attached.”
But I was already off again, staring up at the boughs of a strange, purple-blossomed tree sprouting from the center of the drive.
“It’s a jacaranda,” Dad called to me. “They don’t really grow here, for the most part. I’ve certainly never seen one that size.”
Ducking beneath its trailing branches, I came out on the other side and got my first unobstructed look at the House. I think that moment is when I learned how Dad feels, when he sees a painting badly in need of restoration. As if he won’t be easy in himself until he’s done right by it. Seeing Burleigh House for the first time made me feel that way. Like I wouldn’t believe the world was quite good again, until I knew Burleigh had someone living in it, and loving it.
And oh, I wanted that someone to be me.
The east wing stood, black and burned out, like a vast, charred scar. But the rest of the House was warm yellow stone, rising three storeys to the eaves. The slate roof looked sound, even if it was all-over moss, and the chimneys were choked with rooks’ nests. None of the windows had been boarded over, and most of the glass was broken as a result, sharp splintery teeth jutting from the panes. There were ancient musty curtains visible from outside, beyond which lay tantalizing glimpses of the shadowy interior. Dad had said it was still furnished—that whoever left the place did in a rush, and took nothing with them. I wondered who it had been, and if the House was haunted. Were there mournful ghosts wandering the halls yet, remembering what used to be? If there were, I didn’t think they’d be frightening. Nothing about the place seemed eerie, just watchful and wild and sad, and so very lonely. It was awful, that loneliness. I could feel it, seeping into me through the air and the ground.
Climbing the stone steps that led to the front entry, I pressed a hand to the doorframe. It was second nature, to speak to the House—Dad talks to paintings sometimes, when he thinks no one’s listening, and Mum talks to Evelyn.
“Here now, my love,” I murmured, palm still flat against the doorframe. “You’re going to be alright. Don’t worry so.”
From the comparative height of the front doorstep, I turned to look back at the jacaranda and frowned. A nodding carpet of flowers lay between me and the tree, and I hadn’t even noticed them before. Starry and blue, they sprang up between the stones of the drive and nodded in the wind.
Forget-me-nots.
“No, I won’t,” I promised. “I couldn’t possibly, not now we’ve met.”
Behind me, a slow, rusty whine filled the air. Pivoting, I watched as the old front door hinges finally gave way. They pulled loose from the frame and the door collapsed inward, hitting the ground with a dull thud and sending up a cloud of dust. By the time Mum and Dad came around the jacaranda, the dust had settled. It looked as if the door had been lying there for weeks, not as if the House was all but inviting us in. I bit my lip and kept quiet about it as Dad smiled.
“Looks like we won’t need a key,” he said. “Phil, will you do me the honor?”
He held a hand out to Mum. She wrinkled her nose at him but reached back, and together, the two of them disappeared into the interior of Burleigh House.
Lingering on the doorstep and staring thoughtfully at the jacaranda, I felt it—the moment they crossed the threshold. All the loneliness that had been seeping into me evaporated, replaced by a luminous stab of intermingled sorrow and relief and yearning. And along the drive the blue forget-me-nots vanished, overtaken by ripples of spreading violets, each of them with a spark of gold at its heart.
I didn’t understand, but I didn’t need to. Because my own heart leapt and met Burleigh’s relief with a fierce and burning love, kindled by the sight of wildflowers like waves, and by the longing in this House’s very mortar.
“I’m going to stay with you,” I swore to Burleigh. “I’m going to live here, and look after you, and you will never be alone again.”
It was wrong of me to promise when I wasn’t the one who’d be deciding where we’d settle.
But I couldn’t help it, and I meant every word.
