~
A muffled thumping roused Wren from slumber.
He raised his head from where it’d rested against Shrike’s shoulder and peered blearily around the cottage, searching for the source of the noise. Nothing within seemed to make a noise. But outside, at one of the round windows limned by the soft light of early dawn, perched the furred body, feathered wings, and antlered head of a wulpertinger. At first glance it appeared like a particularly lumpy snow-drift, thanks to its silvery white fur and plumage, with the antlers like two dead branches stuck through it. As Wren squinted, however, the wulpertinger blinked its dark eyes and stomped its hind feet to create another thump.
Shrike, meanwhile, arose from the nest and went to the window to answer the creature’s summons.
Wren fell back against the pillows and waited for his return. His aching wound gave a dull throb, but nothing worse.
A chill draught insinuated its way through the cottage as Shrike opened the window. The wulpertinger fluttered inside to perch on the slate in front of the hearth. Shrike shut the window and followed it. He fiddled with something amidst its fur for a moment before returning to the nest. There he sat on the edge beside Wren and handed him an envelope.
Wren recognised the curiously angular handwriting of the address at once as that of his pupil, Hull. He broke the seal and read apace.
To His Lordship the Holly King of Blackthorn,
Greetings and glad tidings. I write to inform you Mr Grigsby and myself continue to get on splendidly. His mignonette grows apace and he is quite pleased at its progress. He has also received word from Miss Fairfield in Canada that her marriage to Mr Daniel Durst has taken place and they’ve set up their household in Port Hawksbury, which news I’m sure will bring you as much delight as it has done Mr Grigsby.
The only blot in Mr Grigsby’s happiness is that he has not heard from you in some weeks and consequently begins to worry. I hope with your reply I can assure him you are quite well. He’s expressed several times his hope that you will visit again soon.
Your obedient servant,
Mr Hull.
Wren had rather a lot to consider. He knew Hull’s report of Mr Grigsby’s concerns must prove an astounding understatement. On an average day these all-too-common concerns had invariably been misplaced. Now, however, not only must he crush Mr Grigsby’s hopes of any visit in the near future but also do so without letting slip the why, because the truth of the matter would doubtless send the poor old gentleman into an apoplectic fit of anxiety. Nevermind that Wren felt himself out of danger and had confirmation from Everilda that such was the case.
Furthermore, while Mr Grigsby knew the full truth of Hull’s fae nature, he had only the barest hint of Wren and Shrike’s. Hull had confessed he’d let slip that Shrike was fae after Mr Grigsby had asked him direct. Wren didn’t begrudge him it. Mr Grigsby deserved the truth. Wren only asked that Hull let Wren tell Mr Grigsby the whole of it himself.
Trouble was, he hadn’t exactly got around to that in the months since.
Which meant a letter to Mr Grigsby announcing that he’d gone on a Wild Hunt for an ethereal beast and fallen into a lake of eternal ice and been bit by a ferocious monster the true nature of which he did not yet understand, but it was fine because his own position as the Holly King of Blackthorn afforded him certain powers which made him more able to survive hypothermia than most gentlemen might expect, and also the Ambassador of the Court of Spindles had an apothecary brother who provided a potion of eternal sleep at the most critical moment, and their previous alliance with the Court of Bells and Candles granted them access to a chirurgeon experienced in treating mortal patients… would all prove a bit much for the poor old gentleman to take in at once.
Still, he must reply with something, and so he asked Shrike to bring his writing desk so he might make an attempt.
The end result, after several hours and as many or more cups of tea later, was two letters. The first, to Hull, informed him of the entire long and complicated story, concluding with the instruction that Mr Grigsby was not to hear a word of it. The second, to Mr Grigsby, explained amidst profuse apologies that his work for Mr Butcher had taken up all his time of late, but as Wren had got through the worst of it, he would write to Mr Grigsby with greater frequency from now on, though Mr Grigsby must not expect him to visit Staple Inn until, at the earliest, late spring.
The wulpertinger, meanwhile, had stretched itself out lengthwise before the fire and happily accepted Shrike’s offering of dried sloe berries. Wren felt a touch sorry for sending it back out into the cold to deliver his replies. Still, it made no complaint as Shrike slid the sealed missives into the little leather satchelstrapped across its back between its wings. It hopped over to the door. Shrike opened it.
And there stood Everilda upon the threshold with her hand upraised to knock.
“Oh,” she said mildly, blinking down at the wulpertinger. “Beg pardon.”
The wulpertinger seemed to take no offense. It wriggled its coal-black nose and hopped around her to get out into the snow-drifts just beyond. She entered in its wake, and Shrike shut the door behind her.
“How are you feeling, my lord?” she asked Wren.
They’d run through an almost identical script every morning since Wren had first awoken after his icy plunge. His answer had altered subtly as the days ran on into weeks. Today, he could reply with honesty, “Rather well, I think. Just an ache.”
This seemed to satisfy her. With little more than a brisk nod, she directed him onto the work-bench. His pulse and temperature likewise met with her approval. She clipped through the stitches of the bandage and let the soiled linen fall away. Wren set his jaw as she poked and prodded—gently, of course, but poking and prodding nonetheless—at the wound. While he no longer depended entirely on Shrike’s support to hold himself upright, he still very much appreciated the strong arm entwined with his own and the hand that clasped his in turn.
“I believe,” Everilda said softly, as if half to herself, “the wound has closed.”
Wren perked up. He didn’t quite dare believe that phrase meant what he thought it might. Yet as he glanced to Shrike, he found his own hopes reflected in his dark eyes.
The sharp stench of vinegar warned Wren of Everilda’s intentions. As she poured it over a clout and began dabbing athis wound, however, he felt no sting. Just a dull ache deeper within.
“You might try bathing yourself as before,” she said, observing the flesh she’d cleansed. “An’ it so please you.”
The prospect of a proper bath at last pleased Wren very much.
