Instead he heard himself reply, “Ferns and mosses bloom very well in shadow.”
Mr Grigsby stared at him.Well he might, given the stupidity his ward had just spouted.But rather than admonish him, a quivering smile appeared on his lips, and his eyes brimmed over afresh.
And without a word—without any warning whatsoever—he reached out to clasp Daniel’s hand.
The moment he’d done it, uncertainty crept into his features.He hesitated.Doubtless he felt he’d overstepped—Daniel had never in his life seen his guardian move so swiftly, so decisively; some unaccountable emotion must have overcome him—and now made as if to draw back.
Which Daniel could not bear.
And, equally unable to summon the words to tell his guardian so, instead Daniel leapt forward and threw his arms around Mr Grigsby’s shoulders—as he used to do when he was very small—too small to contain his howling grief and with no words to speak of it.
Even as he did so, he feared his grown embrace would crush the frail bones beneath his grasp.
But though Mr Grigsby baulked at first, it softened into a sigh, and he crushed Daniel right back.His hand arose to pat Daniel’s shoulder.“My dear boy.”
Daniel summoned all his temerity and released him.
Mr Grigsby kept hold of his hands and beamed at him through his tears.“I have so much to tell you.”
A Quiet Solstice
Blackthorn Briar
The Fae Realms
Summer Solstice, 1846
Wren Lofthouse had been practising for the Summer Solstice since Ostara.
It had begun as a purely practical solution to the problem presented by his recent infirmity.Everilda, chirurgeon to the Court of Bells and Candles, had declared him well on the road to recovery from the wounds he’d suffered beneath the Lake of Eternal Ice.However, while most fae would’ve recovered from the same injuries by now, his mere mortal frame would not be fully mended for another year and half at the very least.
The most obvious answer was for Shrike to straddle him as he had straddled Shrike on the prior Winter Solstice.But while Wren had enjoyed that experience a great deal, to simply repeat it in reverse felt more anticlimax than climax—if he could permit himself the pun—to say nothing of how Shrike was half again as heavy as Wren.
Months prior he had asked Everilda (and it’d taken him the better part of a week to work up the nerve to do so) how best the two kings might approach the coming Solstice ritual.She had confirmed many of his suspicions; if he attempted to bend Shrike in half under his own weight again he would risk a hernia, and while it would not be entirely inadvisable for Shrike to straddle him whilst he lay supine, the disparity in their respective weight would render him rather more uncomfortable than otherwise.She had suggested they might make use of the work bench, which could tilt at an angle, or an arrangement of pillows for a configuration that would alleviate any possible strain on Wren’s wounded mortal frame.
Wren, his face already aflame from just this much speculation in the vaguest possible terms, had hastily thanked her and changed the subject.His mind continued working away at the problem long after she had departed.What he needed really was a method of bearing up Shrike’s weight.And as Everilda had already suggested, a simple machine would likely suffice.Rather than the inclined plane, however, his thoughts turned towards the rope and pulley.
He asked Shrike, as plainly as his own shame would permit, for his opinion on the matter.Once Shrike understood what Wren intended (Wren laid any blame for the delay in understanding purely upon himself), he expressed his enthusiasm for the idea and his eagerness for whatever the solstice would hold.
Thus assured, Wren set to work in earnest.
The solstice dawned with that glorious deep indigo blue fading to pale azure beneath the sun’s golden glow that filtered down through the broad-leaf branches and cast a vibrant chartreuse hue over Blackthorn Briar.The morning mist swirled is a soft whisper across the forest floor.
Wren would never have suffered to arise so early in Staple Inn without significant complaint.Then again, London’s thick smog would never have permitted him to perceive so brilliant a sunrise.And nothing in the mortal realm, in Wren’s opinion, held even half the promise of Shrike’s waking smile.
The kings strode arm-in-arm out of their cottage.Wren led his Shrike down across the brook and past the warren.The wall of briars parted to reveal a particular thicket he’d spent the last few months preparing.He could not take credit for the trees, but he had chosen them especially out of all the trees within the briar’s bounds, for their circular arrangement befit the sort of nest he wished to construct.
Perhaps it wasn’t his place as the Holly King, lord over winter, to coax his surroundings into verdant growth for a summer ritual.As one who dwelt in Blackthorn Briar, however, and for whom the thorned walls withdrew and advanced at his will, it seemed only natural to extend his command to craft a suitable setting for their rite.
To that end, Wren had spent months cultivating a nest of mosses.A rim of ferns surrounded it, equally for decoration as for their softness, and he’d coaxed the blackthorn to grow in a withy pattern between the tree trunks.Together all the greenery formed a cocoon fit for a fae king.
Shrike cast an approving gaze over the result, much to Wren’s relief.
His pulse fluttered in his throat in eager anticipation rather than fear.Even after two years together his blood thrummed with excitement to disrobe before his beloved, helped along by the gleam in Shrike’s dark gaze cast down upon him and how gently those rough palms slipped beneath the layers of frock, waistcoat, and shirt to ease him into nakedness like nature’s own hands encouraging a rosebud into bloom.His own hands were far less gentle upon Shrike.He gave silent thanks for the strength of Shrike’s skill in sewing, for it was due to that rather than his own care that seams were not rent asunder beneath his desperate grasp.
When they were clad in dappled sunshine alone, Shrike tilted his head down at his king’s glance (a commanding glance, some might say, though Wren didn’t feel as though he had it in him; rather, he supposed it an enquiring one) and Wren stretched up to capture his mouth in a kiss.
Even after so many days upon months upon years of waking up beside his Shrike, toiling alongside him throughout the day and falling into slumber tangled in his embrace, still Wren found himself lost in the sheer joy of kissing his beloved in a realm all their own.It required great presence of mind—greater than Wren had supposed he possessed—to recall that he had a purpose here beyond devouring his Shrike.
