“And of course Mr Tolhurst must be informed of the good news,” Mr Grigsby added.
Wren, in the midst of shaking the snow out of his scarf before he wrapped it around his neck again, paused long enough to say, “I’ll go on to Rochester from Dr Hitchingham’s.”
“And,” said Mr Grigsby, turning to Shrike, “I cannot thank you enough, Mr Butcher, for your assistance in this matter.”
Shrike, in the midst of settling his cloak around his own shoulders once more, paused for a moment before murmuring that it was nothing.
Wren would have liked to point out that carrying a thirteen-stone man on one’s back over hill and dale through the snow and up two flights of stairs was certainly not nothing, and particularly not nothing when one was wounded.
Instead he took the task Mr Grigsby had set him as an opportunity to escape the office altogether, with Shrike by his side once more.
~
“Dr Hitchingham?” Shrike asked as he followed Wren out of the office to Staple Inn’s courtyard.
“An old acquaintance of Mr Grigsby,” Wren explained. “He bleeds his patients more often than I’d think prudent, but then again I’m not a doctor, and I don’t suppose it will do Felix much harm. His chambers aren’t far off from here. You don’t have to come along, if you’d rather not.”
Shrike halted in confusion. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”
Wren stopped as well, glancing up sharp at Shrike. “What? No, of course not, I’m happy to have you along, it’s just—your wound.”
Shrike fixed him with a puzzled look. Almost a full week had passed since the Winter Solstice. He’d taken out the stitches days ago. The wound itself had well scabbed over, and while his cracked ribs had protested vehemently throughout his rescue of Felix, he didn’t think he’d come into any danger of re-injuring himself. Still, Wren’s concern touched him deeply and sent a sympathetic ache through his heart. “It’s healed.”
Wren didn’t seem to hear him. “And you’ve gone so far for Felix already, and over such terrain—”
“I didn’t do it for him.”
Wren faltered. A blush rose in cheeks. Shrike cherished it.
“It’s after dark already,” Wren said when he’d collected himself. “You must be exhausted.”
“Are you?” asked Shrike.
“That doesn’t matter.”
Shrike paused, unnerved by how casually those words left Wren’s tongue. “It matters to me.”
Wren appeared more surprised by that than Shrike thought warranted, though the ghost of a smile flickered across his speckled lips. “Then you understand my concern for you in turn.”
“I’ve endured worse.”
Wren did not appear comforted.
“Come,” said Shrike. “Our quest is not yet ended, and I’ll not abandon you before I’ve seen it through.”
This, at last, provoked the shy smile Shrike loved so well.
They walked on. As Wren had promised, the physician’s office wasn’t far off from Staple Inn. Soon they stopped before a particular edifice.
Wren made for the front steps, then paused and glanced back at Shrike close behind. He looked him over from head to foot and said, “Perhaps it might be best for you to wait outside.”
Shrike glanced down at his own person, taking in the garb that looked nothing like anything worn by any of the mortals they’d passed along the way. Indeed, Shrike’s cloak, tunic, and hose had already caught the eye of many strangers, and his peaked and feathered cap had seemed to raise particular ire. “Aye.”
Still, Wren hesitated. “Will you be all right?”
Shrike found himself smiling. He’d never had a lover worry after him so before. “I’ll be fine.”
Wren returned his smile and went up to the office.
