Shrike waited beneath the statue of Achilles. He’d arrived at twilight and stood there ever since with his arms crossed as he leaned against the statue’s plinth. Mortals flowed past him through the fog. Their gaze shot to his feathered cap and clung to his cloak, tunic, hose, and boots. The mortals who wore gowns and bonnets covered their gaping mouths with gloves or fluttering fans. Those who wore coats and trousers gawked with abandon. Most fell to whispering with their companions as they hurried on. Shrike paid them little heed. None of them were Lofthouse, and thus their opinions mattered not.
As the daylight dwindled, the gowns vanished, and most of the trousers passed through alone. They did not hurry on like those who’d come before. They wandered—meandered—sauntered, even—around the statue. Shrike wondered if the mortals had erected it as a holy site. Perhaps those who came after dark did so to pay tribute to the hero deified. Yet they did not seem interested in the statue itself.
If anything, they seemed very interested in Shrike.
The glances had changed from scandalized to intrigued. Their gaze lingered on him, running up and down the length of his figure, fixing not on the peak of his feathered cap or the fur trim of his cloak but on his visage and the point where his hosed joined in front just below the hem of his tunic. Shrike stared back at them in turn, which seemed more pleasing to them than otherwise, though they sauntered on without speaking to him.
One particular stranger in a blue coat, white trousers, and tall black boots passed Shrike by with a very interested glance indeed. And passed him again. And again, before turning back to lean against the plinth as well, an arm’s-length away from where Shrike stood.
Shrike cast a sidelong look at the stranger. The stranger did not acknowledge it. Shrike returned his gaze to the fog, through which Lofthouse would soon arrive.
“It’s a fine night.”
Shrike glanced around to see who’d spoken. There was no one nearby save the stranger, who kept his eyes averted.
“Aye,” said Shrike.
The stranger still didn’t look at him, but a faint smile graced his lips. “Bit nippy, though.”
As the season had in fact turned, and the Holly King’s power waxed in both the fae and mortal realms, Shrike said again, “Aye.”
The stranger stroked his chin in thought, almost as if to show off the strong cut of his jaw. “Could do with company to keep warm.”
Shrike said nothing.
At last, the stranger turned his head to regard Shrike with an approving up-and-down look and a lackadaisical smile. “What say you and I take a stroll somewhere more accommodating?”
Ah. So this was the true purpose of the statue. Shrike felt rather foolish for not realizing it earlier. Still, he smiled as he replied, “You flatter me, sirrah. But my companionship is spoken for.”
The stranger withdrew at once. “My apologies. Another time, then.”
Shrike nodded farewell. The stranger tipped his hat
And soon enough, Shrike’s patience was rewarded by Lofthouse emerging from the mist.
A grin came unbidden to Shrike’s lips has he beheld the handsome clerk. The constellations of his freckles more than made up for the lack of stars in London’s clouded night sky. Shrike pushed off from the plinth and strode to meet him.
“Butcher,” said Lofthouse. He looked Shrike up and down as well, with as much or more interest as the passers-by had shown. He bit his freckled lip, and Shrike yearned for the opportunity to kiss him again. “Shall we be off?”
“Gladly.”
Shrike turned to lead the way off the well-trod paths into the particular copse of saplings that held the mushroom ring. Lofthouse followed close behind. Shrike wished he could follow closer still.
“Where shall we go?” Shrike asked, halting at the rim of the ring.
Lofthouse’s dark eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Someplace sacred yet secluded.”
Shrike held out his hand. Lofthouse clasped it. His palms were not so rough as Shrike’s, but his ring-finger bore the callus that bespoke his trade.
Lofthouse’s hand clenched his. Shrike drew him close. Together they fell into the ring.
~
Chapter Nine
Wren had stepped through the mushroom ring with Butcher half-expecting to find himself in the midst of the ancient pillars of Stonehenge. Instead, he opened his eyes to discover he and Butcher stood in a forest clearing. Dead leaves, twigs, and the flame-coloured remnants of withered ferns littered the ground, with living trees looming all around them. Not the mountainous pines of the Wild Hunt, nor the deliberately cultivated breeds of Hyde Park, but broad-leaf trees scattered around wherever their seeds had fallen and fought their way up through centuries to reach astounding heights. Of one thing Wren felt certain; he had arrived somewhere leagues away from London.
“Where are we?” Wren asked.
