“For one night,” said Shrike.
“After Midsummer,” added Wren.
Murmurs of intrigue rippled through the throng. Shrike shot Wren a look of knowing approval. Wren’s cheeks glowed.
The Mistress of Revels smiled. “A bold promise, indeed. Though I suppose we should expect as much from the Butcher of Blackthorn.”
The huldra who’d held Felix’s wrist released it as if she were dropping refuse onto East End cobblestones.
“Do with him as you will my lord,” she said, lowering her gaze in a manner which seemed more coy than reverent.
Shrike thanked her with a nod and slung Felix’s free arm over his broad shoulders.
The crowd withdrew to carve a path through the long-house before them. Wren found himself confronted with the same wide-eyed wondrous gaze he’d cast over the throng, now returned to him a hundredfold. He fixed his own eyes above all their heads and horns to look past them towards the hide-covered passage in the hillside.
From the first step it became apparent that Felix would prove no asset to his own rescue. Whether due to his desire to remain with the huldra or due to his withered strength after so long spent in their embrace, his legs dragged across the dirt floor as Shrike and Wren strode forth. By the time they crossed the long-house, he had slumped altogether. Wren only knew he yet lived by taking out his pocket-watch and holding its crystal face up against Felix’s lips to see his breath’s fog on it.
“If he cannot walk,” Wren began.
Shrike required no further suggestion before he seized Felix about the waist and slung him across his own shoulders like a slaughtered stag.
“That’ll do,” Wren said, astonishment forcing the words from his lips. “Except,” he added, as he realized with no small amount of resignation what part he must take in the matter, and slipped Shrike’s cloak off his own shoulders.
Whether or not Felix deserved its warmth was immaterial. He couldn’t survive the frozen walk without it. Wren set his jaw and threw the cloak over Felix and Shrike alike. With the lump of Felix’s body beneath it, the hem rode up to Shrike’s calves, and Felix’s unconscious face remained just visible over Shrike’s shoulder beneath the hood.
Wren shoved his hands into his pockets and staggered forth into the biting wind.
~
Chapter Seventeen
“By Jove!” Mr Grigsby cried. “Our dear Mr Knoll!”
Wren forced a smile as Mr Grigsby all but fell over himself to make way for the motley trio to enter the office. Shrike still carried Felix on his shoulders—had carried him all the way across the snow through the wood and into the fairy circle to Hyde Park, then up Oxford Street, without a moment’s rest nor a single syllable of complaint. The journey, according to Wren’s pocket-watch, had taken hours. It felt like days. Night had fallen by the time they reached Staple Inn.
Mr Grigsby had evidently spent the intervening hours pacing, given the wrinkles in the rug upon their arrival and the breathless state in which he’d answered the door. A full cup of tea on his desk emitted no steam. Wren wondered how long it’d sat there, unheeded.
“Shall we take Mr Knoll upstairs, sir?” Wren asked, forcing a chipper tone. As much as he would have preferred to dump Felix onto the floor before the fire, he didn’t think Mr Grigsby would agree. Nor did Wren think Felix capable of sitting upright under his own in either of the office chairs. Nothing for it but to put him to bed, and the only free bed in the office belonged to Wren.
“Yes, of course,” said Mr Grigsby, indicating the stairway with an open palm. “Right this way, Mr—Mr Butcher, if I do recall correctly?”
Shrike appeared no less astonished than Wren to find Mr Grigsby had remembered his name. After a stunned silence, he replied, “Aye.”
Mr Grigsby’s customary smile returned, if only for a moment.
Wren led them all upstairs and unlocked the garret door. He had no time to even think of the manuscripts under the floor, much less spirit them away into his satchel. Then Shrike brought Felix in and laid him down on the bed more gently than he deserved, and Mr Grigsby rushed in after them. Wren’s relief rivalled Mr Grigsby’s, if only to see Shrike relieved of his burden. Shrike appeared none the worse for it save a few beads of exertion across his brow. Still, Wren thought of the awful wound, and the cracked ribs besides, all hidden beneath his tunic.
“But what has happened to him?” Mr Grigsby asked, laying his wizened hand on Felix’s brow. “Where did you find him?”
“Somewhere he oughtn’t have been,” Wren said, which was true enough.
Mr Grigsby took in Felix’s torpor and wasted appearance and formed his own conclusions. “Not opium, surely…?”
“No,” Wren quickly corrected him. The last thing Felix needed was for his well-meaning guardian to shove a handful of charcoal down his throat. “No, I don’t think so. Only quite exhausted. I don’t think he’s eaten or slept since the twenty-first.”
“My word!” Mr Grigsby breathed. “Well, we have him safe at last, and will soon have him on the mend, too. Though I should like to send for Dr Hitchingham.”
Wren supposed there wasn’t any harm in that. “I’ll go out for him straight away, sir.”
