Wren gestured toward the largest stain, a sickening pool of dull crimson rust that had seeped into the wood-grain to form veins of gore.
Shrike’s face drained of colour. “It’s no fault of yours.”
“It’s my blood,” Wren protested.
Shrike served him an incredulous glance. “Aye. Andthatis why it troubles me.”
The laudanum forced Wren to form the obvious conclusion more slowly than he otherwise would—or at least, he hoped himself cleverer than he felt in that moment. He certainly didn’t sound very clever when he replied far too little and far too late, “Oh.”
A wan smile graced Shrike’s worried countenance. His weathered hand arose to cradle Wren’s jaw. His thumb caressed his cheek. “It’s my own horror to bear. I never meant to burden you with it.”
Wren still didn’t feel entirely exonerated. “Could we scrub it out in the spring? Or is it too far gone?”
Shrike hesitated. “Sand it out, mayhaps. If it’s not soaked in…” He trailed off with a hard swallow. It seemed even thinking on it long enough to speak of it proved beyond his endurance.
Wren summoned all his strength to catch him by the hand.
The touch seemed to startle Shrike. Still, it drew his mind out of whatever horrors bloomed behind his eyes in the remembrance of how the blood-stains came to be. He brought Wren’s hand to his lips and laid a gentle kiss against his knuckles.
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Shrike murmured, his low burr rumbling through Wren’s own chest. “Lest you take another chill.”
Wren felt more than satisfied to acquiesce to return to the nest and suffer to be tucked in with more tenderness than a heart could very well bear.
The following day, when Wren again felt somewhat stronger than before, he asked if Shrike would bring him his gyrdel-book and pencil. Shrike obliged him at once. Yet, much likeGawain and the Green Knightbefore it, Wren found that while his spirit yearned to draw, his flesh remained too weak to follow through, and the laudanum still muddled his head besides. He swallowed his disappointment and instead contented himself with paging through the sketches of last year’s spring and summertime. The thought of the coming vernal season comforted him; at least he could go out-of-doors then, when the days grew longer. The springtime rites would prove a welcome celebration.
But as his mind turned toward Ostara, he recalled what it had wrought for Shrike just one year ago.
The cottage door creaked open, interrupting his grim realisation. Everilda entered.
“Good morrow, my lords,” she said, shutting the door behind herself. “How do you fare?”
“Well enough,” Wren said, truthfully.
She smiled. “Do you feel up to a task?”
Wren exchanged a glance with Shrike, who seemed just as confused as himself. Warily, he replied, “Depends on the task.”
“Physical exercise,” she said. “To strengthen your body and repair the damage done to your muscles.”
The notion of doing something towards regaining his strength held great appeal for Wren. “Like walking, you mean?”
“Something like that,” Everilda said in a tone which suggested nothing of the sort.
The exercises proved more complex than mere walking. First she had him lie on the work-bench, on his back with his knees drawn up and his feet braced flat against the wood.
“Draw your navel down toward your spine,” she said as though it were a very sensible thing to say. “Don’t lift your head or shoulders. Hold until the count of three.”
Wren did as she bade him. It sounded easy enough. It felt much harder. His wound twinged as his muscles tugged against it. Nothing gave way, however, though she made him repeat it five times over.
Then, still on the work-bench with his knees drawn up, she told him to slip his hands beneath the hollow of his back. He tightened his stomach just as before and, at her instruction, flattened his back against his hands and canted his hips upward and inward towards his ribs. Again, he had to hold for three seconds, after which he must relent with a “gentle release.” It felt more ridiculous than painful. Still, five repetitions sufficed to send beads of sweat trickling down his temples.
“I’ve one more, if you feel up to it,” said Everilda.
Wren nodded, determined.
Again she bid him tighten his gut. Then she had him lower his knees to one side, then the other, holding each side until she said he might relax.
“Keep your shoulders flat,” she warned, not for the first time.
