“Indeed!” Mr Grigsby poured tea from kettle to pot and set out a cup and saucer before Shrike. “Beggars tell of will-o’-th’-wisps bobbing about in the dark beneath the trees, and the ghost of a medieval outlaw stalks the barracks!”
Shrike said nothing, lest Mr Grigsby draw any connexion between the rumours and Shrike’s own garb. He had no fears for his own sake. Yet he thought of Wren and what fate might befall him if the mortal realm realised what they had wrought together.
Perhaps sensing Shrike’s growing unease, Mr Grigsby added, “Of course it’s likely nonsense. But amusing nonsense nonetheless. Cream? Sugar?”
Shrike, relieved at the change in the conversation’s course, thanked Mr Grigsby but declined both offers. Mr Grigsby took this with good cheer and settled into his own chair at his desk across from where Shrike sat.
“I suppose,” said Mr Grigsby, “Lofthouse has told you of his intention to leave my employ.”
“He has.”
Mr Grigsby stirred his tea. “He said he wished to go and seek his fortune. Would I be correct if I were to suppose that he intends to do so with you?”
It seemed safe enough to admit that much. “Aye.”
A faint smile twitched at the corner of Mr Grigsby’s mouth. “I’m glad of it.”
This, Shrike had not expected.
“I know not what Lofthouse has told you of himself,” Mr Grigsby continued as Shrike stared in astonished silence. “But I may tell you what I’ve observed. To wit, when he first entered my employ, he went out a great deal. Visiting friends in the City, attending trials to hear the testimony and take notes on the witnesses and evidence in preparation for sitting at the bar, and ever working diligently on his artistic aspirations—though he has never yet permitted me even a glimpse of the fruits of those last labours.” Mr Grigsby smiled, apparently not offended by Wren’s reticence in that regard. His expression grew wistful as he continued. “Gradually, however, he stopped attending trials. Then he ceased visiting with friends. And I began to fear he’d even given up his art. Not that he ever faltered in his duty toward me, you understand. Quite the reverse. But still I could tell he was quite unhappy, and it grieved me to see it.”
Again, Shrike said nothing.
“Then you arrived,” said Mr Grigsby.
Shrike blinked.
Mr Grigsby had returned his attention to stirring his tea and did not lift his gaze from it no matter how Shrike stared. “It was as if you’d returned him to life. I know not what you’ve done to revive him, as it were, but whatever it was has done him a great deal of good, and I am glad of it.”
Shrike found his voice. “I confess I know not, either. But if it has made him happy, then I, too, am glad.”
Mr Grigsby glanced up at last and met Shrike’s gaze with serenity. “You seem a very sensible fellow, Mr Butcher. And Lofthouse seems most happy in your company, and yourself likewise in his. I’m glad he’ll have someone looking after him. Particularly when he’s done so well looking after me all these years. Not that I am helpless without him!” Mr Grigsby interrupted himself with a chuckle. “Though I’m sure he’d tell you otherwise. I will miss him very much, of course, but I can look after myself. I did so for forty years before he came along, and I may do so for however many weeks pass until I can find a suitable replacement for him. Not that I consider Lofthouse at all replaceable! Rather the inverse, in fact. Irreplaceable,” he added with a sage nod, evidently pleased to have found the exact word he wanted. “But needs must, and as he need no longer clerk for me, so I must find another clerk. Likewise must I entrust Lofthouse to your care and keeping, Mr Butcher.”
It became apparent in the ensuing silence that Mr Grigsby had finished expressing his thoughts on the subject and would require more than a nod from Shrike in reply.
“I cannot promise much,” Shrike said, his words coming low and slow. “But I shall cleave to him against all onslaught.”
Mr Grigsby’s startled blink bespoke confusion. Shrike wondered if he’d said more than he ought.
But then the serene smile broke through as Mr Grigsby replied, “And I shall go forth with an easier heart knowing he has you by his side.”
~
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Wren stood beneath the arch of Cemetery Gate in Rochester, against the wall and out of the road, hidden from view amidst the evening’s shadows. Rochester did not have the same silence as the forests of the fae realms, yet it proved far quieter than London after nightfall. He’d arrived in London by train at half-past eight and dashed straight to Hyde Park to the toadstool ring, and from thence to the stable-yard in Rochester, alone. The journey didn’t seem to tire him in the same way it tried Shrike’s strength. He reached Cemetery Gate on foot some quarter of an hour afterward. He’d passed no one along the way. The good citizens of Rochester went down with the sun, so it seemed.
Despite the quietude of the sleepy little town, Wren found the door to Cemetery Gate locked. Perhaps due to his and Shrike’s prior burglary efforts. Or perhaps because Tolhurst had known the sun would set before he returned from seeking the individual he called Miss Flora.
Either way, Wren still had his button-hook and Shrike’s silver awl tucked into his coat pocket from their last adventure and used them now to the same success.
The narrow stair held deeper shadows than the night-time streets of Rochester. Wren crept upward more by touch than by sight, the steps beneath bowed by centuries of tread. No noise reached his ear save the creak of the floorboards under his boots and the pounding of his heart in his throat. With each step it seemed as if he dragged his legs up from fathomless depths. Their strength almost failed him when he alighted on the upper landing.
Against his better judgment, Wren approached the second door.
Cupping his ear to it gave him no hint as to what might lie beyond. He steeled his nerve and rapped his knuckles against the wood panel with a none-too-steady hand.
No one answered.
