But Mr Grigsby waved him off. “I would hardly expect you to. Only think of it, leaving the poor invalid alone all night.”
Wren could never quite tell if Mr Grigsby truly did not comprehend what other men would find suspicious, or if he simply chose to ignore it. He decided it didn’t matter. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’re very welcome, Lofthouse!” Mr Grigsby returned to his newspaper in what appeared to be perfect contentment.
Wren went to his desk, opened his ledger, and sat staring at unending columns of figures with unseeing eyes for uncounted minutes.
He was the Holly King.
Though no crown had yet touched his brow, he nevertheless felt the weight of it keenly. A hollow and heavy weight around his mortal temples in which Death kept his court—or so the Bard had said through the mouth of Richard II. The histories, and theHenriadin particular, had always been Wren’s favourite plays. He couldn’t help thinking of them now. Kit Marlowe came to mind as well. Like Edward II, Wren and Shrike both bore the name of King and wore the crown, yet found themselves controll’d by their unconstant queen. Both Richard II and Edward II had died for love of their favourites. Wren felt he could not escape their fate. The bookshelves surrounding the office seemed to close in upon him with every passing moment.
As if the day had not yet proved trying enough, a merry rapping fell upon the door.
The familiar knock jolted Wren from his ghoulish musings and redoubled the knot of dread in his gut. With leaden limbs he crossed the office to let in the supplicant.
Felix Knoll sauntered over the threshold, bright as ever, and handing off his hat to Wren without looking him in the eye. Wren distracted himself from his irritation by making tea whilst Mr Grigsby fawned over his prodigal ward.
“I had wondered,” Felix said, sitting in Wren’s chair with a cup of tea after an excruciating quarter-hour of polite conversation, “if I might have your assistance in applying for a special licence?”
After a moment’s stunned silence, Mr Grigsby answered him. “I would of course be only too happy to assist you in any way I can. But—if I may be so bold as to ask—why do you require a special licence? You and Miss Fairfield are young, yes, but it would require only the permission of your guardians to marry, and as I am guardian to you both, you need but ask. However, in my opinion, a bit of patience in the matter may go a long way. You will take your degree within the month and attain your majority by midsummer. Then you may begin your career in earnest to set up a proper household for Miss Fairfield and marry her before summer’s end. I realize a few months may seem a great deal of time to wait, particularly when your affection for her is so strong, yet surely you have nothing to gain by applying for a special licence, except expense, and little to gain from my permission save a few weeks’ haste.”
And a hundred awkward rumours, Wren thought but didn’t say.
“I should like to be married much sooner than summer’s end,” said Felix.
Mr Grigsby waited patiently for Felix to explain why.
Felix did not.
Mr Grigsby hesitated a moment further, then ventured in a more delicate tone, “Is there, perhaps, a reason for Miss Fairfield to likewise desire to wed earlier rather than later? Is she—forgive me—in a state of particular expectation? Does she fear a certain consequence if she should fail to marry soon?”
“Oh,” Felix replied with an easy shrug. “She’s not in trouble, sir.”
This euphemism proved still too direct for Mr Grigsby’s sensibilities. A startled cough escaped him, and he fumbled for his handkerchief.
“Or if she is in trouble,” Felix continued, either enjoying Mr Grigsby’s distress or in ignorance of it, “it ain’t by my doing.”
Wren had long thought that, after all Felix had already done, nothing else would surprise him. Yet it seemed Felix had found the means to burrow beneath Wren’s lowest expectations.
A tense pause ensued.
“Forgive me, my dear boy.” While Mr Grigsby’s voice remained mild as ever, the good humour had fallen away to leave something stark in its wake. “I’m afraid I misheard you.”
Felix said nothing.
“I had thought,” Mr Grigsby continued in the same low tone when it became apparent Felix had no reply, “that you had insinuated a grave slur on the character of the young lady you intend to marry. Perhaps you meant it as a jest, though I would hate to think one would make such a jest even in the lowest of company.”
Felix remained silent, his expression sober for the first time in all Wren’s acquaintance with him.
“Or perhaps, Mr Knoll,” Mr Grigsby concluded, “you merely misspoke.”
Relief broke over Felix’s face—too soon, by Wren’s reckoning. “I must have, sir.”
Mr Grigsby didn’t appear in the least bit relieved. “Then, pray tell, for what purpose do you require a special licence?”
“Nothing serious,” Felix answered quickly, with a breathless chuckle that Mr Grigsby didn’t share. “It’s only the matter we spoke of before.”
Mr Grigsby raised his brows.
