“Everilda,” he said. The force required to expel the name from his unwilling lips leant it a queer cadence.
She looked up from her gyrdel-book with a mild countenance. “Yes?”
“I’ve a question for you.” He swallowed hard. “In confidence.”
Mercifully, she arose and drew close to his bedside, kneeling down to hear him.
Now that he had her attention, Wren knew not how to begin. “It’s… of a rather delicate nature.”
Everilda blinked rather like a cat.
Wren summoned all his courage. “When would it be considered safe—medically speaking—for Butcher and I to…” He could not continue looking her in the eye if he wished to finish his enquiry; his gaze flicked toward the wall. “That is to say—when might we engage in…” He cleared his throat. “Well, in… in intimacy?”
A silence fell. Wren kept staring at the wall.
“I think,” said Everilda, “I take your meaning.”
Wren still couldn’t look at her, but a sigh of relief escaped him nonetheless.
“I wouldn’t recommend anything involving your fundament,” she went on.
Wren choked on nothing.
“But,” she persevered regardless of his reaction, “if you were to remain supine, and the Oak King were to do most of the work, as it were, you may engage in intimacy whenever you liked. Not to excess,” she added, “and if you find yourself out of breath or otherwise exhausted, cease. But within reason, I see no danger in it.”
As much as it pained him to discuss such matters with a mortal woman, Wren had to admit her words carried welcome tidings. Still, he couldn’t look her in the eye as he replied, “Thank you.” He hesitated as a thought occurred to him. “Will you tell him so? He’ll not believe it from me.”
A pause ensued. Wren feared he’d overstepped and offended until she replied, “As you wish, my lord.”
He thanked her again, this time making the considerable effort to force his gaze to meet hers.
She graced him with a flicker of a smile and returned to her gyrdel-book.
Not a quarter of an hour later, the cottage door creaked open. Shrike stepped through to knock the snow from his boots and set his egg-basket and milk-pail on the work-bench.
Everilda turned toward Shrike. Wren expected she would arise and bid him join her for a quick private word in the garden.
Instead, she fixed her eyes upon him and said in a perfunctory tone, “The Holly King bids me tell you that gentle lovemaking should pose no danger.”
Wren’s face felt as if it’d burst into flames.
Shrike raised his brows and glanced between Everilda and Wren. After a moment’s pause, he said to Everilda, “I’m glad of it.”
Wren wished himself dead.
Everilda departed the cottage without taking his pulse or temperature. Perhaps she knew his present metal state had altered both beyond medical explanation. Or perhaps she simply trusted he was out of danger. Regardless, even after she’d gone, Wren kept his burning face turned toward the wall.
Familiar footsteps trod the floor. A weight settled onto the bed beside him. Calloused fingertips graced his jaw and gently bid him turn his head towards their owner. Wren screwed up his courage and relented.
Shrike smiled down at him.
Even in the midst of his mortification, the sight of that masculine mouth softened in a gentle curve warmed Wren’s heart.
Shrike stroked his flaming cheek. “You blush handsomely.”
This did nothing to help said blush abate. Wren swallowed hard. “Yes. Well.”
When it became apparent he could say nothing further, Shrike bent to kiss him.
