Wren had drifted off to the hooting of owls in the trees above and the steady rumble of Shrike’s breath through his own ribs as they lay thoroughly entwined within the warm folds of the fur-lined cloak.
Sharp birdsong forced his eyes open to behold the dawn creeping up over the canopy, illuminating the crimson and golden leaves like brilliant bursts of flame. Indeed, he fancied he could hear the fire crackling. The tip of his nose felt not unlike an icicle, but the rest of him remained quite snug within Shrike’s cloak.
Shrike himself, however, had vanished.
The hollow he’d left behind in the cloak’s folds remained warm and still held traces of his woodsmoke-vanilla musk. The scent of woodsmoke hung stronger in the air, as well, alongside the delicious smell of melting fat.
Wren sat up, bringing the cloak with him as he rose so as not to lose its vital warmth. He ran a hand through his hair and found it far more tangled than a typical night’s sleep would allow. His breath formed plumes of vapour in the air before him as he glanced ‘round to see where Shrike had gone.
Candles still stood at the five points of the pentangle. Between them, however, the ring that Wren had carved into the earth had grown over with white-capped mushrooms. The candles themselves had melted down as if true flame and not will-o’-th’-wisps had lit them the night before—though the wicks remained pristine.
Beyond the candles lay the source of woodsmoke scent and crackling noise alike, in the form of a brace of conies spit-roasting over a fire.
And as Wren stared at the unexpected breakfast, Shrike emerged from the trees carrying an armful of fallen firewood. A broad smile broke out over his handsome features as he caught sight of Wren awake.
“Good morrow,” Wren ventured, his voice hoarse.
Shrike grinned and, dropping the wood into the fire on the way, bent to kiss him.
No breakfast before in Wren’s whole life had ever tasted quite so satisfying as the roasted conies torn apart with hands and teeth whilst cocooned in the fur-lined cloak beside his newfound lover. Then, after performing his morning ablutions in a cold-running stream rather than an iced-over basin, Wren donned the trappings of society, stealing covetous glances all the while at Shrike’s shirt, tunic, and hose. They returned to the ritual site and, joining hands, stepped through the toadstool ring.
Hyde Park had never before seemed so feeble and infirm as when contrasted against the ancient growth of Sherwood. Nor had London’s acrid and omnipresent fog ever choked Wren so in the decade since he’d come to live in the city. He wondered how Shrike could stand it.
“May we meet again before Midwinter?” Wren asked.
Shrike gave him a wry smile. “I should very much like to.”
Wren found himself biting his lip in reply. He recovered his senses and said, “I’ve a half-day on Saturdays and the whole day to myself on Sundays.”
Shrike cocked his head to one side in thought. “Would you care to spend Saturday night with me on into Sunday morning?”
“Yes,” Wren blurted almost before Shrike had finished speaking.
Shrike’s smile broadened into a grin. “Then I shall meet you beneath Achilles.”
“One o’clock,” Wren agreed. Then, as he realized he’d never seen Shrike with a pocket-watch, added, “Just after mid-day.”
From the gaze Shrike cast down upon him, Wren thought he’d have liked to seal the promise with a kiss. Instead he clasped Wren’s hand between his own, his rough palms and strong grip infusing the gesture with as much passion as any wanton embrace. Wren, his heart thrumming with anticipation and bursting with desire, had almost enough nerve to throw caution to the wind and kiss him regardless—Hyde Park be damned.
But then Shrike released him and, with that wry smile Wren loved so well, fell back through the toadstool ring and vanished.
~
Lofthouse,
Gone to escort Miss Fairfield to Rochester. Don’t expect my return before nightfall.
Warmest regards,
Mr Ephraim Grigsby, Esq.
Wren had suspected as much even before he’d picked up the note left on his desk. He felt more relieved than otherwise to find his employer and their unexpected guest gone when he returned to the office. For one, Mr Grigsby would never know that it’d taken Wren until half-past eleven to arrive at Staple Inn. For another, Miss Fairfield’s absence meant Wren had no obstacle in dashing upstairs to confirm his hiding-place remained undisturbed.
The sight of his desk gave him the first inkling of alarm. Not ransacked, as Shrike had done, but nevertheless not quite put back the way Wren had left it.Le Morte d’ArthurandGawain and the Green Knighthad transposed their respective positions on the shelf, whileIvanhoesprawled open across the blotter. His pen was out as well, set down neat beside the book. Atop the encounter between the Black Knight and the Friar lay a scrap of paper.
Wren ignored it for the moment, far more concerned with what lay under his bed. By throwing himself down on the floor he discovered the same layer of dust he’d left behind. Prying up the loose board with his pen-knife revealed his manuscripts had not altered by an inch.
Reassured that Miss Fairfield had not stumbled on his own body of work in her search for improving literature, Wren returned to his desk for the note. It ran on in a crabbed scrawl with the pen-strokes digging into the paper.
