“Mr Knoll is almost a man grown, sir,” Wren said softly in the ringing silence that followed. “You cannot blame yourself.”
“I’m afraid I must,” replied Mr Grigsby. “Otherwise it will fall square upon Mr Tolhurst’s shoulders—and I believe we can both agree he is not responsible for what Mr Knoll has become.”
Wren did not agree, in fact, but held his tongue. And as Mr Grigsby sipped his tea and stared off into nothing, Wren found himself wondering if Mr Grigsby would grieve him half so hard as he grieved Felix if he knew the depraved depths to which Wren had sunk. Whether Mr Grigsby would be more distraught to realize he’d raised up a spendthrift or a sodomite, Wren couldn’t say. His pessimistic nature inclined toward the latter possibility.
Yet despite all this, one curious spark ignited in Wren’s mind. Felix, desperate for money, would stoop to any depth to obtain it. A man willing to beg his guardian for a special licence—and ruin his innocent betrothed in the bargain—would hardly do less to those for whom he cared not a whit. And while Wren didn’t have a particularly high opinion of Felix’s intelligence, he thought him clever enough to make more than one attempt at the acquisition if he believed he had the upper hand.
Such as, perhaps, by convincing his guardian’s clerk to apply for a special licence in secret, under the threat of blackmail. Or demanding the clerk withdraw further from his trust. Or simply command the clerk to fork over his own wages and savings outright in exchange for keeping his terrible secret.
Felix had done none of this. He’d made no mention of Wren, had hardly glanced toward him throughout his visit. Nor had he contacted Wren to confront him with the hideous evidence.
From this, Wren could draw but one conclusion.
Felix did not have his manuscripts.
~
“Tolhurst, then,” said Shrike.
Wren had divulged the day’s events the moment they stepped through the toadstool ring into the fae realm, and Shrike had reached his conclusion almost as quickly.
Having thought the matter over for hours beforehand, Wren felt forced to agree. Still, “I hardly know what he would want with it. He certainly hasn’t blackmailed me yet, and I can’t imagine what would drive him to do so—while he’s not so well settled as his nephew, he has a comfortable enough living in Rochester. Certainly more comfortable than myself. One would think his moral fibre would demand my arrest. Or perhaps,” Wren added, though he didn’t really believe it, “he did what I could not, and threw the whole into the fire, lest it corrupt any more idle readers.”
“I should hope not,” said Shrike.
Wren gave him a sharp glance. “Why not?”
“Your work is wonderful. To burn it would be a terrible waste.”
“I’m very much afraid no one in the mortal realm shares your opinion. But—thank you,” Wren added, for his words had warmed his heart nonetheless.
This earned him a smile, though wan and fleeting.
The remainder of the winding walk to Blackthorn passed in silence. Wren felt no need to break it as the briars receded from their approach of the cottage. Nor as Shrike opened the door and reached inside.
But when Shrike brought out an arming sword and held it out, scabbard and all, towards Wren, Wren thought it prudent to speak.
“What’s this for?” he asked as he took it from Shrike. The leather scabbard, tooled in a pattern of ivy leaves, reminded Wren of a leather-bound book. The sword weighed more than a book, though it felt better balanced in his hand. It didn’t look like the one Shrike had used in the solstice duel or the dance at Ostara.
Shrike had already gone into the cottage again and retrieved that very sword. Then he unsheathed it. The blade sang out as it came free, the ringing metal echoing all throughout the briar.
Dread seized Wren’s heart. “What are you doing.”
Shrike swung the blade back and forth as if testing it. He adjusted his grip on the hilt and motioned to the scabbard in Wren’s hand with the wickedly pointed tip. “Draw your sword.”
Wren swallowed. His mouth remained dry. “Why don’t we go inside?”
“I would recommend against sparring indoors,” Shrike replied.
Sparring. Wren, who’d not excelled in fencing at university, replied, “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” said Shrike.
Wren very much doubted that—inexperience begat accidents that no amount of practice could set right—but relented nonetheless. It took two tries to pull his own sword from its scabbard, producing dull and disjointed clatter rather than the magnificent ring of Shrike’s blade. And when he held it before him, it wavered in his grip, his arm not accustomed to holding the weight of a blade steady. Sixty hours a week hunched over a desk had not done much to increase what meagre strength he possessed.
Shrike, meanwhile, dropped into a half-crouched fighting stance as naturally as most men dropped off to sleep. “Come at me.”
Against his better judgment, Wren did his able best to imitate Shrike’s pose, then slashed out at Shrike’s sword with his own. It glanced off with a clang.
