Daniel shot him a wary look. “That depends upon what you ask.”
Wren could hardly blame him for his suspicion. “Will you write to Mr Grigsby after your arrival and tell him you’re safe and sound?”
Daniel’s suspicious look became something like consideration.
Wren hastened to press his advantage. “He’ll not seek you out. Nor will he make any attempt to bring you back. And,” Wren added, with his own terrible conjectures as to what pursuit drove Daniel to this desperate flight, “he will not reveal your location to anyone else. If you tell him to destroy your missive upon reception, you may depend on him to do so. Only—he does care for you, and he will worry his life away for want of a resolution. All he desires is to know you are safe and happy. Even if he may never guess what shape that happiness takes.”
A lengthy pause ensued, during which Wren feared he’d failed to impress upon his audience the gravity of his concerns.
Then Daniel nodded. “I shall write to him.”
“Furthermore,” Wren continued, unable to repress an apologetic wince, “if I may be so gauche as to mention it, he can send you the remainder of your fortune once you come of age.”
A huff of wry laugher escaped Daniel.
Wren indulged in a reciprocal smile. “Have you enough to tide you over until then?”
Daniel nodded again and gestured toward his fresh-shorn locks with a swift and decisive hand. Wren realised Daniel had proved clever as well as daring, for in selling his hair, he’d not only acquired funds for his adventure but also rid himself of the most recognizable evidence of his past. Wren only wished he could have seen the expression on the wig-maker’s face as Daniel handed over gold for gold.
And yet, Wren still couldn’t keep from wondering why Daniel hadn’t exhausted all possible source of funds. While it seemed Daniel never expected Wren to condone this most unusual scheme, much less offer assistance in it, Wren’s objections might be easily overcome by the use of the missing manuscripts against him. Yet Daniel had made no mention of the papers nor Wren’s unnatural predilections.
Which led Wren to a singular conclusion.
“I hesitate to ask,” said Wren, “but have you by some chance discovered anything of the papers that went missing from Mr Grigsby’s office some months hence?”
Daniel blinked at him with undisguised bewilderment. “No. In truth, Mr Lofthouse, I’d assumed you’d found them ages ago.”
Wren withheld a sigh. “I have not.”
“Then I regret I cannot repay your kindness by solving this mystery for you,” Daniel replied. “Still, if Mr Grigsby hasn’t noticed the papers’ absence by now, then he likely never will. You needn’t fret over them any more than he does.”
Wren wished it were so simple. Despite his own predicament, he found himself smiling for Daniel’s sake. “Then all that remains is for me to wish youbon voyage.”
Daniel accepted his well-wishes with a gracious nod; Miss Euphoria with another curtsey. Wren tipped his hat to both and showed himself out.
But when he reached the threshold of the Black Whale and stepped out into the streets of Liverpool, he had no intention of turning his boots toward Staple Inn.
If neither Felix nor Daniel had stolen Wren’s manuscripts, then it fell to Tolhurst. And Tolhurst had gone north, across the border, to seek a schoolgirl who didn’t exist.
Wren had no time to waste in stopping in Staple Inn to explain his purpose. Particularly not in front of Mr Grigsby. Nor did he want Shrike to leave Mr Grigsby’s side just yet—not when Tolhurst might return from his ill-conceived expedition at any moment. He must go straight on to Rochester without delay.
If ever there were an opportunity for an uninterrupted search of Tolhurst’s rooms, it must be tonight.
~
It was fortunate, Shrike thought, that Mr Grigsby favoured a copper kettle lined with tin.
Mr Grigsby had at first appeared astonished to find Shrike on his doorstep. But the very moment Shrike explained he wished to see Wren, Mr Grigsby invited him into the office to await Wren’s return. Though Shrike dipped and ducked to get his antlers in through the door-frame, Mr Grigsby noticed them not, thanks to Wren’s clever sigil on his own half-mask.
And now, as Shrike sat in Wren’s desk chair while Mr Grigsby puttered about with kettle and tea leaves, he reaped the harvest of a sense of hospitality which would have put even the most scrupulous fae to shame.
“I’ve sent Lofthouse away on a matter of business,” Mr Grigsby explained as he stoked the fire. “But I hope he may return by evening—and if not, you’re more than welcome to visit again on the morrow. I’m very glad for the company.”
Shrike nodded, and this was enough for Mr Grigsby to continue chattering on about some articles he’d found interesting in that morning’s paper and what rumours he’d heard in town of late.
“Very fanciful ones!” Mr Grigsby added as he took the whistling kettle off the flame. “Out of Hyde Park in particular.”
“Oh?” said Shrike, the first word he’d spoken in several minutes.
