At present, Wren wondered if Mr Grigsby had intended a deliberate hint in saying he would ask the Horse Guards in particular to find him. He pushed his anxieties down to reply in an almost normal tone, “I beg your pardon, sir. I was out visiting a friend and quite forgot the time. It won’t happen again.”
But Mr Grigsby’s astonishment at Wren’s entrance had already dissolved into his customary good humour, and he chuckled as he replied, “I should hope not!”
Still, Wren hesitated in the doorway. A glance around the office showed no sign of Felix Knoll, hung-over or otherwise. Mr Grigsby would only have known Wren was gone, rather than simply having a lie-in, if he had climbed up to the garret to see for himself—and in doing so, he could hardly have avoided discovering Felix in Wren’s bed. Unless Felix had arisen and shown himself out before Mr Grigsby awoke, which, given Felix’s condition the previous night, Wren thought unlikely in the extreme. At length he dared to enquire, “Has Mr Knoll graced us with his presence this morning?”
Mr Grigsby appeared puzzled but by no means concerned. “Not yet, no. Were we expecting him?”
“Not by appointment,” Wren hastened to say, lest Mr Grigsby think he’d forgotten to mark it down in the office diary. “Only I met him in town last night, and he mentioned he might visit us on the morrow.”
Mr Grigsby brightened. “Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise! Still, I suppose he is very busy visiting his friends, and we mustn’t expect he’d find the time to do more than pop his head in, if at all.”
Wren agreed—aloud, if not in his heart—that a visit from Felix could prove nothing short of wonderful. He further begged Mr Grigsby’s pardon again whilst he went to his room to fetch a fresh pen-knife. Mr Grigsby cheerfully waved him off.
It took a great deal of concentrated effort for Wren to prevent himself from dashing up the stair. Still moreso when he reached the first landing and looked up to find his garret door a half-inch ajar.
Wren crept up the last few steps and nudged the door open with his fingertips. It creaked inward, revealing the untouched desk with its chair pushed in, the wash-stand in disarray, and the much-rumpled bed devoid of Felix.
This mystery did not hold Wren’s attention for long. His foremost concern remained beneath the floorboards. He kicked his door shut behind him and dove under the bed to check his hidden nook.
Every page remained just as Wren had left it.
Wren indulged in a deep sigh of relief as he hauled himself upright and dusted off his knees. Liberated of his most pressing anxiety, he took a second glance at the mess Felix had left in his wake. The bedclothes had dragged halfway across the floor, and the fine blond hairs stuck to Wren’s straight-razor combined with the layer of scum in the wash-basin suggested Felix had made himself quite at home.
Trust Felix not to bother making up the bed, Wren supposed, though he’d have thought they taught boys better than that at Eton. Still, he had to admire Felix’s industry in getting up before Mr Grigsby. Particularly when one considered the state of intoxication in which Wren had put him to bed. No doubt Felix had wanted to escape without any lowly witnesses to his shame. A twisted part of Wren wished Mr Grigsby had stumbled upon Felix that morning, if only to show Mr Grigsby just how his golden boy spent the funds kept in trust for him.
Without proof, however, Wren could do nothing. So he returned downstairs and settled in to work with Mr Grigsby as if Felix had never stayed the night and Wren himself had never visited the fae realm.
Over Christmas, Wren could not escape Mr Grigsby’s company. Mr Grigsby himself took both the Eve and the Day off. Unlike most gentlemen of his profession, he extended this holiday to his clerk, as well. However, as Mr Grigsby himself had no near relations or close friends to spend it with, he invited Wren to enjoy Christmas with him. And as Wren was no longer welcome in the company of his near relations or close friends, he had no excuse to demur.
Wren knew he ought to feel far more grateful for Mr Grigsby’s generosity—for Mr Grigsby neither pleaded with him to accept, nor lorded it over him afterward. And he did grant Boxing Day to Wren in its entirety.
Nevertheless, Wren found it tiresome to match Mr Grigsby’s holiday cheer when he felt so little of it himself. Particularly this year of all years, when Wren not only had, for once, a dear friend with whom he might spend a holiday, but also knew that while Mr Grigsby smiled and hummed carols to himself as he carved up the roast goose—ordered in advance from Mr Grigsby’s favourite inn across the way—said friend lay alone and wounded far beyond Wren’s reach.
Never mind that Shrike had assured Wren of the injury’s insignificance and of his own fae resilience. Never mind that Shrike had stitched himself up for decades if not centuries before Wren came along. Never mind the myriad scars that bespoke how Shrike had already survived wounds just as bad or worse than the one he received in the solstice duel. Wren’s heart bled for him regardless—as did his cuticles, gnawed raw in what few moments he could spare out of Mr Grigsby’s sight.
Despite all this, Wren survived Christmas without giving Mr Grigsby any hint as to his own misery or Shrike’s plight.
Boxing Day dawned as bright and clear as any day could in the midst of London’s fog-smothered winter. Wren bolted out of bed with the sunrise, though he’d hardly slept, and hastily made himself ready to go out, packing up his satchel with leftover Christmas pudding and laudanum. Then he dashed downstairs, his mind already flown far from the confines of Staple Inn and off to the fae realms—to the blackthorn brugh—to Shrike’s warm and welcome embrace.
Which made it particularly irritating when the door-bell rang.
Wren swore a vicious oath under his breath. Mr Grigsby wasn’t even awake yet—which made the unknown visitor Wren’s problem, holiday or no holiday. Whatever idiot had decided Boxing Day was a day for seeking legal counsel at the crack of dawn, Wren could hardly escape the office without encountering them along the way. He didn’t have Shrike’s talent for leaping out of windows.
Before Wren could bring himself to submit to his fate and unlock the door, much less open it, a hail of blows fell upon it from the other side.
“Mr Grigsby?” a man’s voice cried out. “Mr Grigsby! Open up, I beg you! Something terrible has occurred!”
The voice sounded genuinely distressed as well as familiar, and this familiarity prompted Wren to unlock the door.
Tolhurst burst through it.
~
Chapter Fifteen
Wren, too startled to do more than leap backward, gaped at Tolhurst. Gone was the sober gentleman Wren had met in autumn. Flecks of shaving foam stuck behind his jaw and below his ear; his left shoe had come unlaced; his modest blue necktie hung rumpled and half-undone from his collar; his beaver hat perched precariously askew until he swept it off his head, whereupon his hair stood up at all angles in its wake; and deep shadows underscored his bulging eyes.
Tolhurst’s wild gaze locked with Wren’s. “Is my nephew here?”
