Shrike folded his arms across his chest, leaned back against the wall, and settled in to wait.
Despite Wren’s absence, Shrike did not wait alone. London’s streets bustled with mortal undertakings long after nightfall. A lamp-lighter, doing what little he could to combat the fog, gawked at Shrike as he passed by. Shrike gawked back. A crossing-sweeper kept sneaking amused glances at him. Shrike shared their mirth. A lady in garish costume ambled past once or twice in no evident hurry and with many a lingering look over Shrike’s figure. Shrike tipped his hat to her, which earned him a smile before she moved on to more lucrative hunting grounds.
Just as the office door opened and Wren stepped down into the street to rejoin him.
“What of Dr Hitchingham?” Shrike asked as Wren emerged alone from the physician’s edifice.
“Dr Hitchingham will be along shortly,” Wren said. “He didn’t like my coming in—think he was about to close up shop for the night—but when I mentioned a young man of considerable means had collapsed from exhaustion in Mr Grigsby’s office, he reversed his attitude. Though I think the mention of Felix’s wealth moved him more than his symptoms.”
Shrike agreed.
“Regardless,” Wren continued, “he knows the way and doesn’t need us to guide him, so we’re free to go on to Rochester.”
“Then let’s be off,” said Shrike when Wren made no immediate move towards setting out.
“It’s thirty miles to Rochester,” Wren explained after some hesitation. “Ten hours by foot.”
“Ah,” said Shrike.
“If we’ve any luck,” said Wren, “we may catch a farmer’s cart on its way out of town and convince them to take us along.”
Shrike could tell Wren did not consider such a prospect likely. “If I may propose another solution.”
“By all means,” said Wren.
“I could find us a steed in the park.”
The excited gleam in Wren’s eyes tempered with hesitance. “Folk might look askance at two men astride a stag in Rochester.”
“I could find us a horse, if you prefer.”
“Could you indeed?” said Wren.
He spoke in a tone of such wonder that Shrike felt all the more determined to impress him with success.
~
Wren did not realize the implications of Shrike’s plan until they stood together before the Horse Guards’ barracks in Knightsbridge.
“When you said you couldfinda horse,” he ventured in a low voice, “I believe you meant to say you couldstealone.”
Shrike appeared bemused by the distinction. “Aye.”
As a gentleman, Wren ought to have objected to embarking upon criminal enterprise. Instead his pulse quickened as he developed a wry smile to match Shrike’s own. “Then, by all means, lead on.”
Shrike’s faint blue will-o’-th’-wisp lit their creeping path through the fog. The patrol around the barracks appeared as intermittent shadows weaving through the grey. None seemed to note Shrike or Wren’s presence, and small wonder, when the flickering yellow gas flames did not penetrate more than an arm’s length beyond the lamp-posts.
If the stable door had any lock, Shrike’s deft fingers disposed of it before Wren ever perceived it. And then they stood inside, cold wind replaced by animal warmth well-insulated with hay.
Dozens of horses stood on the straw-covered floor; most asleep, some roused by Wren and Shrike’s geldings, and none particularly concerned with the ghostly light flickering over them.
Bold as anyone pleased, Shrike strode down between their lines, casting appraising glances over each horse in turn. He halted by one particular steed, sleek black like all the rest.
Wren had just begun marvelling at the ease of their passage into the cavalry barracks when the golden light of a lamp burst into the stable, banishing the pale blue spark.
Shrike dove behind a bale of hay. His tumbling appeared remarkable no less for its agility as for its occurring in total silence. Wren scrambled to follow him with far less grace.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice called. “Show yourselves!”
