“His name is Rainscald,” Shrike told Wren, as if that explained everything. “He has agreed to carry us to Rochester for the sake of adventure.”
“Right,” said Wren. “Of course.”
Shrike smiled and without further ado mounted their steed in a single swift leap. Impressive enough under normal circumstances. Doubly so when Rainscald wore neither saddle nor bridle. To say nothing of Shrike’s injuries. Wren supposed Shrike required no tack, if the experience with the stag were any indication.
As he’d done with the stag, Shrike bent to offer Wren his hand. Wren hopped up behind him with half as much ease and far less grace, but succeeded in attaining and keeping his seat, which was more than he’d expected. He wrapped his arms around Shrike’s waist and leaned his head against his shoulder, revelling in his warmth and the simple comfort of being near to him.
Then Shrike’s knees clenched against Rainscald’s flanks and they dashed off into the night.
~
Chapter Eighteen
The clatter of hooves over cobblestones filled Shrike’s ears as Rainscald galloped away from Knightsbridge and over the Thames. Soon, however, he twisted his hands in the gelding’s mane to rein him in. As Shrike did not have an enchanted bridle, spurs, whip, shoes, or saddle that might enable Rainscald to gallop thirty miles without exhaustion, it would be wiser to alternate between trotting and walking to Rochester. The thundering hoof-beats died away into a dull pattering. It grew duller still as they left the city’s paving stones behind for roads of packed dirt.
The further they ventured from the city centre, the easier horse, mortal, and fae alike breathed. No longer did caustic fog burn Shrike’s lungs, or iron ache weigh down his limbs. Just Wren’s head against his shoulder, Wren’s arms around his waist, and Wren’s breaths low and steady in his ear. On any other night, nothing could have made Shrike more content. Certainly Wren had earned his rest. Yet this night demanded far more of them both.
“Wren,” said Shrike.
With a groan, Wren lifted his head from Shrike’s shoulder. “What?”
“Some centuries have passed since last I wandered these roads.”
“Are you lost?” Wren asked in the rough voice of one not quite roused from his drowsy state.
“Not yet,” Shrike admitted. “I’ve ridden from London to Rochester once or twice, but I’ve never been to Tolhurst.”
Wren straightened up with a stifled yawn. “We’re on the right track. But I don’t know how much longer I can stay awake.”
Shrike could hardly blame him after all they’d been through since yesterday. “Shall we stop and rest awhile?”
“No, we haven’t the time. Talk to me.”
Shrike didn’t think he had words enough to fill an hour, much less a night.
“Or rather,” Wren added, as the silence became telling, “keep me talking. Ask me something.”
Shrike would have liked to hear Wren expound on a myriad of subjects, but one particular question had remained foremost in his mind throughout their adventure. “Why does Felix vex you so?”
“You should know,” Wren replied. “You’ve met him.”
Shrike laughed.
Wren shared his mirth, though it faded as he elaborated on his point. “I came into Mr Grigsby’s employment after my father cut me off and threw me out.”
The remnants of Shrike’s laughter died in his throat.
“My literary-minded acquaintances formed the Restive Quills in our sophomore year,” Wren continued. “We collaborated on many a foolish publication—they all as authors and myself as a sometime-author, more often illustrator to their works. Among them I had a particular friend. John Vincent. Rather more than a friend,” Wren added. His words emerged in a peculiar pattern, halting and hesitant for a phrase or two, then surging forth in a rush as if he could no longer contain them. “Enough so that I produced a great many sketches of him. Portraits at first. Then more elaborate costumed poses and scenes for illustrations. And then… nude studies. And in such a position as to leave no mistake of just how close we had grown.”
A silence fell. Shrike waited patiently for the tale to continue. When the silence grew tense, he realized Wren was waiting to see how he took it. He wondered if Wren expected jealousy. Shrike felt none. Likewise he wondered if Wren might ask him to pose for something similar, and why he hadn’t already. Bashful, perhaps. A fond smile tugged at the corner of Shrike’s mouth as he replied, “I see.”
A slight sigh of relief escaped Wren’s lips to ghost over Shrike’s ear. “In my third year at university, I came home for Christmas and, foolishly, brought my artistic efforts along to occupy myself during what had always proved a very dreary holiday. Unfortunately my father, for the first time since I’d failed to grow up into a strapping sportsman, chose to take an interest in my work. I’d left the library for but a moment to fetch a composition I’d forgotten in my chambers. In that moment, he entered the library for the first time in over a decade. And in doing so, he saw what I’d been working on.”
“Ah,” Shrike said as his heart plunged into his stomach.
“Indeed. As you might well imagine, he did not see its artistic merit. He said if that was all I’d learnt at university, then he’d not pay a penny more for it. And threw me out of his household besides.”
The light and sarcastic tone of Wren’s retelling did not quite disguise the undercurrent of pain in his voice. It made Shrike’s heart ache.
