Shrike remained undaunted. “You devised the sigil for our Samhain ritual.”
“I didn’t devise anything,” Wren protested. “I copied it out ofGawain and the Green Knight.”
“Perhaps. Though Gawain didn’t use it as you did. Unless I’ve very much misunderstood the tale.”
A breathless huff of laughter escaped Wren despite his best efforts. “As you will. But first, I think, more laudanum.”
Shrike did not object. Wren tried to take it as a sign of Shrike’s trust in him, rather than indicating an increase in Shrike’s pain.
~
For Shrike, time passed with a steady, if not entirely comfortable, rhythm. Each morn he awoke curled ‘round his Wren, the dull throb of his brow rousing him from his slumbers. They broke their fast and tended the flocks together before Wren departed for Staple Inn. Shrike spent the daylight hours alternating rest with work on his glamour mask. The sunset heralded Wren’s return, whereupon they supped, and Wren coaxed Shrike to an early bed. Thus each day continued on much like the one before it.
And each day, another inch gained on Shrike’s antlers.
The third day saw them split into their first prongs. Over the course of the ensuing se’en-night they split again, and again, and again, until they attained six points between them.
At the close of the se’en-night, Nell returned.
“Lofthouse not arrived yet?” she said by way of greeting as she ducked into the cottage.
The sun’s rays had just begun to fade to scarlet. Shrike, still at his work-bench, set down his mallet and awl beside his half-finished mask. Despite her continued suspicion towards Wren, Shrike found himself glad to see her again. “Soon.”
Nell approached the work-bench in a wandering way that appeared haphazard, though Shrike knew her every step deliberate—for she stalked her prey in much the same manner. She bent over his shoulder to peer at his handiwork. “I half expected to find you gone to meet him.”
“I will when this is complete,” Shrike said, handing her the mask.
She gave it close examination. “There’s no glamour in it.”
“Not yet,” Shrike admitted. “What word from the Silver Wheel? Who is the Holly King?”
“No one,” said Nell.
Shrike stared at her. “None?”
Nell’s own curious gaze remained fixed on the half-finished mask as she ran her fingertip along its curving points. “Your queen appointed none on Ostara and has granted the title to none since. Perhaps she waits for your attendance on Beltane.”
“Then she waits in vain.”
Nell raised her head and brows alike at that. “You mean to defy her.”
“To my last.”
She appeared no less sceptical as she held out the mask in return. “And your last it will prove indeed, if you refuse all foreknowledge of your opponent.”
“Then so be it,” said Shrike, taking it from her.
“So be what?”
Both Nell and Shrike whirled to face the threshold where Wren now stood. As glad as Shrike had felt for Nell’s company, his heart rejoiced anew to see Wren. Breathless, with a slight rose hue blooming beneath his freckles and one stray lock of chestnut hair falling across his brow—all of which told Shrike he must have dashed, rather than ambled, from Staple Inn to Blackthorn. His jaw set in determination and his eyes afire with curiosity sparked a similar blaze within Shrike. His cravat had just begun to loosen its knot in his journey. His frock coat fluttered open to reveal the merest glimpse of white shirt-sleeve beneath his shoulder and his waistcoat with its long line of buttons down its front, which Shrike’s fingertips knew as well as his own tunic ties.
“Beltane,” said Shrike.
“Or May Day, as your folk would call it,” Nell added. “Whereupon the Oak King crowns the Queen of the Court of the Silver Wheel.”
Wren furrowed his brow. “A new queen?”
“No,” Shrike interrupted before Nell could confuse Wren further. “It’s a farce. The queen demands the pageantry of a coronation for herself each spring, and her reigning king must perform the office.”
