Mr Grigsby again declared his delight in learning this, and, more importantly, finally sat down and distracted himself with breakfast.
The rest of the day ran on in much the same manner as the thousands of unremarkable days that had passed before it—with the exception that Wren did a great deal more surreptitious scrawling in his note-book behind the stacks of ledgers, and towards a greater purpose. A multitude of potential magical sigils poured forth from his pen. Invented instructions for occult rituals flowed alongside them, his cramped hand producing increasingly arcane notes as he went. Amidst all of this occurred several attempted portraits of Butcher himself—tall, dark, and handsome—high cheekbones, aquiline nose, dagger-point ears—dark eyes in whose depths one could drown in and delight in drowning—sometimes in statuesque posture with an entirely invented sword such as appeared on the tombs of kings, and sometimes sprawled across gnarled tree-branches like Robin Hood with his shapely limbs displayed to their best effect, and sometimes brooding beneath his heavy cloak with its tattered edges like raven’s feathers, but always invoking a spark of desire in Wren’s heart.
Mr Grigsby could be counted on to notice none of this, for which he had Wren’s silent and undying gratitude.
Thus the fortnight until Samhain flew by.
The morning of the final day of October dawned with the same dull grey fog that heralded every morning in London. Unlike most days, however, it did not rain, which Wren took as a sign of good fortune.
The hours crawled past. Wren drew many a marginal snail in between his clerking duties—light as ever—and his final, furtive designs for the Samhain ritual.
At eight o’ clock, Mr Grigsby arose from his desk to go out to dinner. Wren tried to sound disinterested yet not ungrateful as he declined his master’s customary invitation to join him. Inside, he felt as if a thousand fireflies flew through his blood. He thought only of dashing to Hyde Park the instant Mr Grigsby left the office.
But just as Mr Grigsby retrieved his walking-stick from the umbrella stand, the downstairs bell rang.
And all Wren’s eager excitement withered into bitter anxiety.
“Goodness,” Mr Grigsby remarked. “It’s a very late hour for business. I hope nothing is amiss.”
Wren withheld an irritated sigh as he shoved his sketches under an open ledger and tore himself away from his desk to answer the door. No doubt Felix had returned for a second attempt at an advance on his trust fund, or Tolhurst had come to hear another report on his nephew’s affairs. Wren opened the door ready to suffer through either of these interruptions.
He had not prepared himself to come face-to-face with a girl.
She appeared just as surprised to encounter him. Her blue eyes widened, their colour enhanced by the blue of her morning dress and the matching ribbons in her bonnet, from which a few golden ringlets escaped to frame her milk-white face. She could not have seen more than sixteen summers—and all spent in luxury, judging by the lace trim on her hems and gloves.
Bizarre that a girl should venture into Staple Inn. Still more bizarre that she should come alone. Yet most bizarre of all—Wren thought he recognized her.
“Miss Fairfield?” Wren ventured.
Miss Flora Fairfield blinked back at him. “How…?”
“Mr Knoll carries your miniature,” Wren hastened to explain. “He showed it to Mr Grigsby and myself shortly after its completion.”
“Oh,” she said.
It occurred to Wren that nobody carried his miniature for Miss Flora to acquaint herself with prior to this meeting. “Forgive me—Lofthouse, Mr Grigsby’s clerk. At your service.”
“Oh!” she said again, this time in recognition. “Yes, Mr Lofthouse—Mr Grigsby speaks very highly of you.”
Wren could not fathom how.
“Miss Fairfield?” came Mr Grigsby’s voice from within the office, and soon Mr Grigsby himself appeared over Wren’s shoulder. “Bless my soul! What a pleasant surprise! Come in, come in—only,” he added, blinking past Miss Flora into the empty stairwell, “surely you didn’t come alone?”
“I must,” Miss Flora replied with admirable composure as she crossed the threshold. “I had no other way to reach you. I didn’t wish to put matters into writing, lest they fall into… other hands.”
Mr Grigsby looked as confused by this as Wren felt. Yet he remained as amiable as ever as he ushered her into his chair and put the kettle on for tea. She perched on the edge of the seat and cast a wary look over the office as she untied her bonnet to reveal the same golden curls as her miniature portrait—though her rigid posture and unsmiling face, which accentuated all the hard lines of her shoulders and jaw, looked quite unlike her likeness. Wren had never expected to meet the girl in his life, but even so, she defied his expectations.
“Now, my dear!” Mr Grigsby said, just as if he addressed the meek and mild creature carried in Felix’s locket and not the proud yet anxious young person seated before him. “Do tell us all we may do for you in your time of need.”
She had, after all, come a rather long way to do so. Still, her eyes flicked toward Wren as she replied, “I would prefer to ask my questions in confidence.”
“You may trust my clerk with your life,” Mr Grigsby declared—again.
Wren, already halfway through his retreat to the staircase, turned on his heel and resumed standing by the mantle with his hands folded behind his back. Miss Flora glanced at him again. He ventured a comforting smile. She did not look comforted but made no further objection to his presence in the office and returned her gaze to Mr Grigsby.
“I wish to know,” she began, her words halting with consideration, “whether or not my inheritance is dependent on my marrying Felix.”
“Not at all,” Mr Grigsby replied after a moment’s stunned silence. “You shall come into it in full when your come of age—which you may do this very spring by marrying Mr Knoll, but of course, if you prefer to wait, then you shall have full use of it on your twenty-first birthday.”
