Shrike answered him with a smile.
~
Staple Inn, London
June 6, 1845
Wet ink glistened on the letter Wren had just penned. Four prior drafts lay scattered across his desk, crumpled and smeared. This final attempt, however, he thought might serve.
Though his heart still sank to read over his own words.
Before his courage could fail him, he forced himself to grasp a pinch of dust and sprinkle it over the letter to absorb what ink remained wet, then blew on it for good measure before he folded it up. He rose from his desk and took three strides across the office to stand by Mr Grigsby.
Mr Grigsby looked up from his newspaper with a quizzical expression.
Without a word, Wren handed over the letter.
“What’s this?” asked Mr Grigsby, bemused.
Wren gazed down on his wrinkled features, their delight and curiosity in no way dulled by age, and forced himself to say the words that would banish joy. “My fortnight’s notice.”
If Wren slew Shrike, Wren would be compelled to remain in the Court of the Silver Wheel to reign as the Holly King and duel the new-crowned Oak King upon the Winter Solstice. If Shrike slew Wren—well, Wren would be dead. And if all went according to plan, and both he and Shrike survived… Either way, he could not return to clerking in Staple Inn.
Mr Grigsby’s smile withered. He unfolded the letter and read.
Wren clasped his hands behind his back and waited. Another minute passed in silence save for the ticking of the clock on the mantle.
“‘Overseas’?” Mr Grigsby read aloud, glancing up at Wren. “You’ve not yet decided where to seek your fortune?”
“Not yet,” Wren lied. “I’ll go wherever the wind takes me.”
Some of Mr Grigsby’s good humour returned. “How whimsical! Dear me, what adventures you shall have. You’ll be missed, of course, but far be it from me to stand in the way of destiny. Only, you will write, won’t you? I should like to hear from you now and again and know how you get on.”
“Of course, sir,” Wren said, the well-practiced reply falling from his lips before he had time to think it through.
Mr Grigsby smile and refolded the letter to tuck it into his waistcoat pocket. Then he returned to his newspaper as if Wren had never interrupted him.
Wren envied his serenity. Though he maintained his impassive mask as he returned to his desk and resumed mechanically paging through his ledger, the wheels of his mind spun at a frantic pace. His off-handed promise to write to Mr Grigsby could not be kept. Not unless he survived the coming solstice and found a way to send penny post through the fae realms, besides.
In the midst of this bitter maelstrom, the office door burst open.
Wren leapt to his feet before he fully recognized who had entered. In his defence, the wild-eyed and hatless man with the morning’s stubble still on his cheeks bore very little resemblance to Tolhurst’s customary calm and collected demeanour. Indeed, Wren hadn’t seen him so distressed since Felix failed to appear for Christmas.
“Mr Grigsby,” Tolhurst gasped as the startled old gentleman spun in his chair to regard him. “I’m afraid I bring you most dreadful news.”
Wren’s heart sank. Only one thing could distress Tolhurst more than his nephew’s initial disappearance. Somehow, Tolhurst had discovered that Felix had perished.
“What is it?” asked Mr Grigsby.
Tolhurst ran a distracted hand through hair which did not look as though it had touched a comb since last night. With a hollow voice and a haunted gaze, he replied, “Miss Fairfield has vanished from Mrs Bailiwick’s Academy.
~
Chapter Thirty-Five
A queer mixture of disappointment and alarm overcame Wren. Alarm at Miss Flora’s disappearance, naturally enough, but also disappointment that the knowledge of Felix’s death remained his burden to bear alone.
“Vanished?” cried Mr Grigsby, oblivious to Wren’s conflicted thoughts. “But how? And to where?”
