Shrike furrowed his brow in confusion. “If what?”
“English law is not so forgiving as the fae,” said Lofthouse. “At least not on the subject of sodomy.”
This did nothing to dispel Shrike’s confusion. He tilted his head to one side.
Lofthouse took this in with a glance and attempted another explanation. “Do you know what English law does to men who lie with men?”
Shrike shook his head.
“It hangs them,” said Lofthouse.
Shrike stared at him.
Lofthouse averted his gaze. “The most recent execution was some ten years back. Two men—Pratt and Smith—caught together, tried, convicted, hanged.” His jaw worked, clenching and unclenching, before he continued. “The penalties for mere indecent acts are less severe. Legally, at least. Socially the penalties are severe enough to drive a man to self-murder.”
Shrike’s initial shock, a mere spark when the explanation began, flared into indignation and ended in a blaze of outrage—anger at the injustice rather than the messenger, but anger all the same, enough to inspire one to take sword in hand and exact justice of one’s own. He restrained himself to smouldering, though his voice hardened as he replied, “I should like to see them try to hang us.”
Lofthouse glanced up in astonishment, which dissolved into a breathless huff of hollow laughter. “Well, I shouldn’t like to see anything of the sort. Though I appreciate the sentiment.”
Despite himself, a wry smile tugged at the corner of Shrike’s mouth.
“Still,” Lofthouse continued, “you see why it would prove inconvenient for me to be caught out with another man in the garret above my place of work. Not that I expect Mr Grigsby awake before dawn, but—” He broke off, conflicted desire twisting his porcelain features into stark shadows. He bit his lip in a manner that, in a different moment, might have tempted Shrike to kiss it. “You understand, don’t you?”
“I do,” said Shrike.
The relief that flickered across the clerk’s handsome face proved ample balm. “That isn’t to say we might not continue elsewhere—another time—if you’re willing?”
“Most willing,” Shrike replied, and dared express some of his own relief in a smirk.
The flash of a grin that answered him was worth a hundred blows. “Splendid. But, as for tonight, we’d best not go any further down that particular lane. And besides,” Lofthouse added, “there’s the matter of your predicament, which you came here to discuss.”
If the threat of execution had not already sobered Shrike, the reminder of his impending duel did the trick.
Lofthouse gestured toward his desk. “Won’t you sit down?”
Shrike would’ve liked to sit beside him on the bed but supposed that would prove too much temptation. He considered the desk and its chair. The desk appeared better suited to his height; he perched himself on the corner of it, with one leg drawn up beneath him.
Lofthouse regarded him with a curious expression, then pulled out the chair and sat down in it, gazing up at Shrike with an intensity that made it seem as if their perspectives were reversed. “When last we spoke, you said your queen had named you king, and this meant you must duel another king to the death on the winter solstice. Do I have the right of it thus far?”
“Aye,” said Shrike.
“Why?” asked Lofthouse.
Shrike blinked at him, unable to stop himself from echoing, “Why?”
“Yes,” said Lofthouse, as though his question weren’t unprecedented. “Why did your queen name you king? Why does this mean you must duel another king? Why the winter solstice? And, for that matter, why to the death?”
Shrike shrugged. “I know not.”
Bewilderment writ large on the clerk’s handsome features. “Then why the deuce are you going along with it?”
“Because I must.”
Lofthouse didn’t appear convinced. “Tell me the whole of it—from the beginning.”
“I know not how it began,” said Shrike. “But I can tell you it has been so since well before I ever came to the Court of the Silver Wheel. Every year, the queen appoints an Oak King to rule from the Winter Solstice to the Summer Solstice, and a Holly King to reign from the Summer Solstice to the Winter Solstice. On the Winter Solstice, the Oak King slays the Holly King, ending winter and heralding the return of spring. Then the queen appoints a new Holly King, and on the Summer Solstice, this Holly King slays the Oak King, ending summer and heralding the impending autumn. Then the queen appoints a new Oak King, and so the Silver Wheel of the seasons continues turning.”
“So this ritual honours the changing seasons?” said Lofthouse.
