She waved him off and, with a significant glance at Everilda, gathered up her bundle and left the cottage.
What Everilda made of Nell’s glance, Shrike couldn’t fathom. She merely took up her fever-wand and heart’s-vine again. The fever-wand slipped between Wren’s pale lips. The brass bell of the heart’s-vine pressed against his ribs, then moved to the ivory wrappings ‘round his waist.
Shrike forced himself to cease watching her. Yet he couldn’t keep his gaze from returning over and again to Wren’s sleeping face whilst he sliced and chopped and crushed herbs to add flavour to the stirring stew. Goat’s milk gave it body. He melted cheese into it for good measure. He wished he had marrowbone to toss in.
An hour or so passed. Shrike knew not how long precisely. It felt like an age. The stew simmered. And Everilda, at last, turned to him and said the words he’d awaited ever since Wren had swooned in his arms.
“You may wake him.”
Shrike leapt up from the hearth, his heart in his throat. A single stride brought him to Wren’s bedside. There he knelt and took Wren’s cold hand between his own. He glanced toEverilda to find she’d turned her back and busied herself in her instrument case.
So Shrike held his breath, bent his head, and, as he’d fiercely wished to all these long hours, bestowed a kiss upon his Wren.
~
The first thing Wren knew was the gentle sensation of familiar lips against his own. Vanilla and woodsmoke filled his lungs, and he smiled even before he opened his eyes to find his Shrike’s handsome face above him.
The second thing he knew was a sharp ache throbbing through his right-hand side. His breath hitched and he bit back a pained groan. A shiver ran through his whole frame and refused to leave him.
Shrike’s soft smile fell into concern. His fingertips alighted on Wren’s brow—his touch warm as sunshine—and trailed down his cheek in a tender caress. His lips parted for speech.
Wren got there first. “Gave my cloak away.”
Shrike blinked in bewilderment.
“To a faun.” Wren’s voice came out in creaks and cracks. He would’ve said more, but his shivers increased and his teeth began to chatter.
Shrike’s mouth set in a grim line. He turned from Wren toward the hearth—for, Wren realised now that Shrike’s beloved form no longer filled his vision, he lay not in the icy forest but in their own bed in Blackthorn cottage.
A scraping sound arose from the crackling fire as Shrike worked the poker. Wren felt he could watch him in contentment forever. But he espied something over Shrike’s shoulder that drew all his attention.
A woman stood in the cottage.
Not Nell, either. An altogether stranger, dressed in the dull brown robes of a monk—or a nun, Wren supposed, for while she wore her auburn hair cropped close, it lacked a tonsure. She busied herself in digging through a leather case and producing a great deal of clinking noise. And as Wren stared, he realised her close-cropped hair revealed ears shaped much like his own.
Wren supposed his icy plunge had strained his nerves to their breaking point. Now he saw shadows as spirits and imagined an entire woman standing in their cottage.
Unless she was real.
Wren forced his gaze away from the conundrum and looked back to the familiar form of his own dear, sweet Shrike. He wanted to call him back to bed, to lie beside him and curl around him and entwine himself with his beloved’s warmth. Only he mustn’t call him Shrike just now, in front of company. Assuming the company was real. But neither could he recall what it was he ought to call him instead. And all the while his wound throbbed.
Shrike turned to the woman. “Ought he to eat or drink?”
“Oh, thank God,” Wren blurted. “You can see her, too.”
Shrike whirled ‘round to blink at him.
The lady laughed. “Aye—and I can see you, as well.”
Shrike stood. The poker in his hand had been replaced by a flannel bundle in his arms. He brought it to the end of the nest and tucked it beneath the furs and quilts by Wren’s bare feet. Only when its warmth seeped into his skin did Wren recognize it as a hot brick—or, given Blackthorn cottage’s construction, a rock.
This done, he returned to kneel at Wren’s side, taking his hand in his own with a soft smile. His warm palms folded their warmth over Wren’s frozen knuckles. Wren wanted nothing more than to take him by the wrist and draw him into bed beside him. But the presence of the woman gave him pause. Worse still,over Shrike’s shoulder, he beheld her approach the nest with her leather case.
“I’m called Everilda,” she said, relieving Wren of having to ask. “You may have some broth in a moment, but first I must ask; how do you feel?”
“Well enough.” The polite reply fell from his lips without thought. With a touch more honesty, he added, “Cold.”
He dared another glance at Shrike, his gaze flicking from one dark eye to the other, searching for answers. He couldn’t speak his myriad questions aloud, for he couldn’t think of a way to phrase his enquiries which wouldn’t give offence.
