“Not at all, sir.” The words fell from Wren’s lips like stones.
In Mr Grigsby’s defence, he did look very sorry about it. “We cannot thank you enough for your assistance in this matter, Lofthouse. Nor your friend—” Mr Grigsby peered around the otherwise empty office, evidently just noticing Shrike had vanished.
“Butcher had a pressing engagement,” said Wren. “Though he gives Mr Knoll his best wishes for a full recovery.”
“How very good of him! Please, give him my regards the very next time you see him.”
Wren swore he would do so. “Will Mr Tolhurst be staying, as well?”
“Yes, at the Red Lion—though I expect most of his hours will be spent with his nephew.”
Wren hadn’t the funds to do likewise, even if he had the inclination. “If I may make a suggestion, sir.”
Mr Grigsby bid him do so.
“Perhaps,” said Wren, careful to disguise his more bitter feelings with rote adherence to etiquette, “if it would not prove inconvenient to you, I might find lodging with a friend in the city until Mr Knoll is well enough to go with his uncle.”
“What a splendid notion!” said Mr Grigsby, as Wren had known he would. “Yes, that would do nicely, I think.”
Wren managed a faint smile. “Is there anything else you require of me, sir?”
“Nothing particular, Lofthouse,” Mr Grigsby said, raising Wren’s hopes only to dash them in the next instant by adding, “Only, mind the office while I see to Mr Knoll.”
“With pleasure, sir,” Wren forced out.
Mr Grigsby smiled and vanished away upstairs again.
Wren stretched out an aching arm towards a random ledger to throw open across his desk whilst he tried very hard not to think about how not only Felix, but Tolhurst, Dr Hitchingham, and Mr Grigsby himself now lurked over his most incriminating manuscripts and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future. He hadn’t the concentration to do more than stare down at the blurred and warping columns of accounts laid out before him. Twelve hours passed by in this aimless pursuit, interrupted on occasion by Mr Grigsby popping downstairs to ask Wren to run a script over to the chemist or to carry a message to Dr Hitchingham’s household or to order and retrieve dinner from the Red Lion. Wren accomplished all this in a dull haze not unlike the fog hanging over the whole city. Only the chime of eight o’ clock roused him from his stupor.
“If you’ve quite finished with me, sir,” Wren said, hat and coat already donned and one hand upon the latch.
Mr Grigsby replied in the affirmative and had hardly got out his good-night before Wren all-but-fell through the door and down the stair into the foggy night.
Whilst his heart wished to run, his exhausted legs staggered and stumbled over the cobblestones of Oxford Street. Every step burned as if he dragged his boots through molten lead. Still, he told himself, every step brought him nearer to Cumberland Gate. Then, nearer to Achilles. And then, at last arriving, he beheld the familiar long shadow, the feathered hat, the furred hood, and the noble profile of his own dear Shrike.
Wren collapsed—not into Shrike’s arms as he so desperately yearned to, but against the plinth. He waved off Shrike, who’d moved as if to catch him. Shrike halted just short of doing so. Between the fog and the darkness, Wren could perceive little of his expression, but his silhouette moved with the hesitation of grave concern.
“I’m fine,” Wren said, though the words emerged muffled. “We’d best be off—there’s nothing to do be done for it in London.”
Shrike waited with an air of worried anticipation as Wren dragged himself upright and pushed off toward the mushroom ring. Even in the dark, by now Wren knew the path as well as if it were carved into his heart. Shrike fell into step beside him.
The very instant Wren passed through the ring, Shrike fell upon him. The furred cloak swept off Shrike’s shoulders and onto Wren’s. Shrike’s arms swiftly followed, wrapping around Wren in an embraced that warmed his body alongside his heart and lifted him from his slumped and shambling posture, and began half-carrying Wren through the wood.
Wren felt as though he ought to protest on behalf of his dignity, if nothing else, but found he lacked the strength to do more than insinuate himself further into Shrike’s grasp. He let his eyes fall shut and leaned against Shrike’s warm bulk to keep himself upright. His legs staggered mechanically along with Shrike’s stronger strides—though, Wren noted even through the fog of exhaustion in his mind, Shrike seemed to take much shorter steps than his long legs would otherwise make.
The wintry wood proved not quite so cold as the realm of the huldra, but colder than London, and it seeped through Wren’s boots and trousers to rob him of his strength. He knew not how long they walked. Then, all at once, warmth washed over him, and he opened his eyes to find himself in Blackthorn’s cottage, with Shrike lowering him to the bed.
Wren, conscious of London’s soot and slush on his clothes, attempted to protest.
Shrike shushed him—gently—and went to shut the door.
Wren struggled upright and fumbled at his waistcoat buttons with fingers that could no longer feel. The hearth-fire crackled as Shrike re-kindled it. Then Shrike himself returned and deftly slid his hands beneath Wren’s to do what Wren could not.
With a defeated sigh, Wren let his arms drop limp to his sides, moving only as needed to assist Shrike in withdrawing limbs from sleeves. Every layer removed seemed to take some of the cold with it, until Shrike had him down to his small-clothes—and then out of those, as well. Wren shivered, but not for long, as Shrike drew the furs over him. Then, after a moment’s parting, which Wren protested with a feeble mutter, Shrike returned to sleep beneath the furs beside Wren, as naked as himself.
Shrike curled his body around Wren, his chest flush against Wren’s back, his heartbeat reverberating through Wren’s own ribcage, their legs entangling as he pressed his lips to the nape of Wren’s neck. Wren would have liked to roll over and make good use of their mutual nakedness, but all too soon the sleep he’d put off for so long washed over him.
Some hours later, Wren opened his eyes to sunshine streaming through the high round window and Shrike’s arms enfolding him still.
