Wren didn’t know what else to say to that but, “Indeed.”
The ambassador’s sharp teeth flashed in a swift smile. “You may wish to remove your wool.”
Wren relinquished his frock coat to Shrike’s proffered arm. It felt odd to bare his shirtsleeves out-of-doors; even moreso in front of a near-stranger. The ambassador, for his part, appeared in no way offended. From what Wren had seen of the fae realms, it didn’t seem like they had overmuch regard for modesty.
Thus disrobed, Wren began to climb, with the ambassador darting up ahead of him and Shrike bringing up the rear.
Wren had never proved a particularly athletic youth. In his years with Mr Grigsby, living above the office, he rarely walked more than a few streets in a day. And while he’d spent the past few months in daily hikes from Staple Inn to Blackthorn Briar and back again, that would hardly erase almost a decade of sloth.
All of which meant that by the time he reached the top of the watch-tower—several minutes after the ambassador, who stood waiting for him with his head cocked to one side like a curious hound—Wren felt certain he would die.
His heart pounded in his ears. His legs and lungs alike burned. His throat and stomach conspired rebellion. He leant forward and braced his hands on his knees to keep from collapsing altogether as he drew great gulping breaths. His awareness of his surroundings on the watch-tower roof dwindled to the sheer relief of the breeze rusting the leaves of the canopy in the surrounding woods—and, more importantly, wicking the rivulets of sweat streaming down the nape of his neck.
When he could raise his head again—he knew not how long after—he beheld Shrike and the ambassador standing before him; Shrike gazing down at him with brows knit in concern, while the ambassador watched him with bemused intrigue. Neither seemed in any way affected by the strenuous climb.
The instant his eyes met Shrike’s, Shrike wordlessly handed him his water-skin. Wren drained half of it in a single draw which left him gasping for breath anew when he finally let it fall from his lips.
“Shall we go down?” the ambassador enquired.
Wren had to admit the notion appealed to him. Yet it felt like a trap. “To go upstairs again?”
“Naturally,” the ambassador chirped.
Every bone in Wren’s body screamed for him to refuse.
Something of this must have shown in his face, for Shrike stepped forward. “Another day, perhaps.”
As much as Wren wished to agree with him, he waved him off. “I’ll do it thrice before the day is out.”
He regretted saying so as soon as the words left his lips, but he didn’t take them back—no matter how high Shrike’s brows rose. Half-measures would not serve to ready him for the solstice. As the ambassador had said, he must acquire speed to attain surprise. After all, no one knew what to expect of Shrike before he became the Butcher of Blackthorn, and to hear Shrike himself tell it, the element of surprise had accounted for much of his success in that particular endeavour. Wren would grit his teeth and do what he must to equal him.
He did, however, dispense with his waistcoat before he began the descent.
The downstairs journey had two points in its favour. For one, it was all downhill. For another, it went at a far more sedate pace. Shrike had volunteered to lead the way; whether to enforce the slow and steady rate of descent or to catch Wren if he should collapse on the stair, Wren knew not. His gratitude knew no bounds in either case.
At the bottom of the tower they paused whilst Shrike let Wren have another draw off his water-skin and went to refill it from the brook that babbled throughout Blackthorn. Then the ambassador leapt up the steps with all the grace of a cat, leaving Wren to drag his burning legs after him.
The second climb went slower than the first, but Wren made it to the top again nonetheless. He took his welcome descent with one hand on the lilac railing and the other braced against the stone wall.
On the third climb, Wren turned his mind away from the pain dragging his body down and toward imagining a slavering wolf chasing after him. The thought of fangs sinking into his flesh and tearing him apart did wonders for motivating each successive footfall.
Until, mere steps away from the lilac ladder leading up the trap-door to the roof, the sole of his boot slid off the corner of the time-worn stone and left him plunging backward into the void.
For an instant the horrifying sensation of wind whirling in his ears and the stone slipping away beneath his boot-heels consumed his world as he fell.
Then strong hand seized him by the shoulders from behind.
Wren’s heart fluttered for reasons beyond mere exertion as he let his eyes fall shut and leant into Shrike’s embrace. Yet, having found his footing again, he allowed himself but a moment’s respite before he resumed his climb. Only when he took another step did Shrike release him.
His momentum broken, Wren had to drag himself up the final few steps hand-over-hand on the lilac banister. Yet up he went, and soon enough stood with shaking legs against a parapet on the roof of the watch-tower.
The ambassador heaped praises upon him. Wren hardly heard a word. He locked eyes with Shrike, and the smile he saw there bespoke pride enough to make all the agonies worthwhile.
~
“Is Mr Knoll in?”
Wren blinked at the stranger with the red-and-yellow checked sack-coat and silver-tipped cane standing on the threshold of Mr Grigsby’s office. It was the first of June, and the first Wren had heard of Felix since his departure in disgrace on the second of May. “I beg your pardon?”
