Wren doubted Tolhurst had much familiarity with the huldra, but said nothing.
Felix heaved a sigh. “I suppose I ought to thank you for rescuing me from that nunnery.”
Wren stared at him. He couldn’t tell if Felix had built upon his own lie, or if the young man genuinely believed he’d been saved from a mere mortal brothel. If Felix remembered nothing, far be it from Wren to remind him. But if Felix remembered everything, then Wren didn’t think he could stand it. The fae realms had become his haven from the worst aspects of English society—Felix included. And if Felix knew, then he might tell others. Or hold the threat of telling others over Wren’s head. Wren had expected blackmail to befall him for most of his adult life. Still, being blackmailed specifically regarding the fae was certainly a novel fear.
Wren didn’t dare ask Felix anything outright, lest he show his hand, or worse yet, trigger the full recollection. In a carefully indifferent voice, he remarked, “And I suppose you’ve learnt your lesson.”
Felix gave a derisive snort. “What’s for breakfast?”
Wren supposed reformation had been rather too much to hope for. He set about making tea and toast for the invalid—about which Felix had many complaints, until Wren pointed out that the only alternative, under doctor’s orders, was beef tea. This didn’t shut Felix up by any means, but it did convince him to clear his plate.
After breakfast he asked for a newspaper. Wren gave him Mr Grigsby’s copy of theTimes. Felix then promptly fell asleep with it open over his face.
Wren spent another quarter-hour watching him, marking his deep and steady breaths for any change which might indicate a return to wakefulness. When nothing of the like occurred, and Felix seemed only more asleep than ever before, Wren dropped to his knees and crawled under his bed. With one leg still protruding out into the room behind him, he worked his pen-knife out of his waistcoat pocket to pry up the loose floorboard.
Then the door creaked open.
“Lofthouse?”
Wren jerked up and banged his head against the underside of the bed-frame. He bit back an oath and scrambled out from beneath the bed still clutching his pen-knife.
Mr Grigsby stood on the threshold. From behind him Miss Flora peered over his left shoulder into the room, whilst Tolhurst took the right. Three pairs of eyes fixed expressions of mixed confusion and incredulity on Wren, lingering on his dusty knees and elbows.
“Forgive me, sir,” Wren forced out, though all his worst anxieties had come to roost in his garret. Holding up the article in question, he added, “I dropped my pen-knife and it slid under the bed.”
Mr Grigsby appeared bemused. Miss Flora looked indifferent. And Tolhurst wore an aspect of unmistakable disapproval.
This last in particular riled up Wren’s indignation. He stood in his own damned room, after all, which he’d given up to the ingrate invalid without complaint. He had every right to crawl into whichever corners of it he damned well pleased. But, mindful of his position and his cowardice alike, he bit his tongue.
“And how fares our dear Mr Knoll?” asked Mr Grigsby, stepping into the garret.
Mr Grigsby’s entrance allowed both Miss Flora and Tolhurst to come in as well, with Tolhurst slipping past him and Wren alike to reach Felix’s bedside.
Wren glanced back at the invalid, who through some miracle slumbered on despite the absurd circumstances. “Quite well, sir. Very peaceful. He woke up soon after you left and took his breakfast before dropping off again.”
“Splendid,” said Mr Grigsby. “Then you may leave him in the tender care of Mr Tolhurst and Miss Fairfield. Come along, Lofthouse.”
So saying, Mr Grigsby turned to go out again. But before he could take one step down the stair, Miss Flora’s voice rang out clear as church-bells.
“If it pleases you, sir, I’d like to request that Mr Lofthouse remain for a moment. I have some particular questions for him regarding Felix’s rescue.”
Mr Grigsby appeared no less bewildered by this announcement. Tolhurst looked almost as perturbed as Wren felt.
Yet, as Mr Grigsby’s creature, Wren could reply in no other way but, “Of course, Miss Fairfield.”
And so Mr Grigsby went downstairs alone.
Wren pulled his desk chair back into place so Miss Flora might take her ease at her betrothed’s bedside. She thanked him and sat down. Then, as Tolhurst stepped forward to stand by her, she beckoned Wren closer in his stead. Wren shot Tolhurst an apologetic glance and went to meet her—against his better judgment. He’d dreaded this interrogation from the moment Mr Grigsby declared Felix must stay in his garret. Mr Grigsby might believe any wild tale Wren chose to tell him, but Miss Flora, in Wren’s short acquaintance with her, had given him a far more canny impression. To say nothing of Tolhurst’s suspicions already raised against him.
Miss Flora kept her gaze on Felix’s sleeping face as she asked, “Where did you find him?”
“In Hyde Park,” Wren answered. He caught Tolhurst’s look of alarm in the corner of his eye, but ignored it. While a gentleman might understand the connotations of such a place, a young lady of Miss Flora’s breeding would not.
Indeed, Miss Flora seemed hardly perturbed. “And what became of him to reduce him to this state?”
“I must confess I know not,” Wren lied. More truthfully, he added, “Dr Hitchingham believes that, after his friends abandoned him, he became lost in the fog. In attempting to reach Staple Inn and take refuge with Mr Grigsby, he wandered by accident into Hyde Park. It was a very cold night. Hypothermia brings on grave confusion and eventually drags its victims down into a deep sleep. In such a trance, and exposed to the elements for three days, the cold consumed him and left him in the condition you now see before you.”
The story had so many holes that it more resembled a fisherman’s net than a tightly woven narrative. Miss Flora might prick her needle into any one of them and unravel the whole.
