All this meant that, after ten hours spent puzzling over the mysterious Butcher, Wren had no more idea of what to expect at the Green Man than when he’d begun.
When the clock over the mantle struck half-past seven, Mr Grigsby rose, stretched, and, as he did every evening, invited Wren to join him at the inn across the way for dinner. And like every evening before, Wren demurred. Mr Grigsby never took any offence at this. He had long ago supposed Wren preferred to dine with his artistic and literary peers, and for many years his supposition proved correct. Though the circumstances had changed, Wren saw no need to correct Mr Grigsby’s assumptions. Regardless of the reason, the outcome remained the same. Mr Grigsby invited Wren to join him for dinner; Wren declined; Mr Grigsby bid him goodnight and departed for the evening; Wren stayed to finish what work he could before going to bed himself in the garret above the office and Mr Grigsby’s own chambers.
Tonight, however, at quarter to eight, Wren donned his coat, locked up the office, and strode out into the night. A long, cold walk ensued over the cobblestones until he reached the hanging sign of a man’s face overgrown with ivy. Wren braced himself before the green-painted door and, with a sigh, shoved his way into the bright bubbling chaos of scores of clerks making up for twelve hours of absolute boredom.
The noise of their excitement assaulted Wren’s ears like a trumpet blast. A cluster nearest the fire had broken out in popular comic song which one of them had heard at a music hall; this young man stood on an ottoman to direct his fellows in following along his half-remembered lyrics. A still larger circle of clerks had gathered around this mess to laugh at the spectacle. The remainder not directly involved in the musical revue had all their own jests, gossip, and arguments to distract them, each raising his voice above the general noise to make himself heard, and thus each voice raising the general noise by exponential degrees. The resulting cacophony would’ve turned Wren right around and sent him out into the night again had he not determined himself to meet the enigmatic Butcher. So he nudged, pardoned, and surreptitiously elbowed his way through the throng, his black frock coat a dark speck of ink in the roiling tide of more fashionable orange, green, crimson, and pink waistcoats, neckties, and gloves of his fellow clerks.
It occurred to Wren, as he stepped away from the bar with a cup of coffee in either hand and searched the crowd in vain for anything like medieval garb, that convincing him to wait in a coffeehouse all night for a mysterious stranger who never arrived might, in and of itself, pass for a prank. A wise man, having recognized this, would no doubt cease his fruitless hunt and fight his way out of the Green Man the same way he’d come in.
Yet Wren also recalled the high cheekbones, hawkish nose, and haunting dark eyes of the imposing figure who’d appeared in his office as if summoned by Wren’s wishful imaginings of something—or someone—to carry him away from the ceaseless drudgery of his own life.
Wren supposed he’d never been a wise man.
“Lofthouse.”
Wren flinched and whipped his head ‘round. The voice, its low growl cutting through the noisy cheer of the crowd, had spoken his surname directly into his hear. He looked over the heads of the assembled clerks, where he expected to see a particular long and brooding face rising above the throng but beheld no sign of the speaker.
“Down here,” the voice growled again.
Wren glanced down and discovered a rough-hewn table tucked away in the back corner not more than two feet from his own left elbow. This position left it quite out of reach of the candles overhead and the merry flickering of the hearth-fire surrounded by armchairs full of clerks further off and cast the whole corner into shadow. Yet the shadow seemed deeper than it ought, as if it absorbed all light attempting to breach it. And in this fathomless shadow sat a hooded figure, no less imposing for his hunched posture.
“Butcher,” Wren said, setting the coffee-cups on the table and pulling out a chair to join him.
As soon as Wren sat down, Butcher threw back his hood. He wore no mask this time. Wren supposed the proprietor of the Green Man wouldn’t have allowed it. He appreciated Butcher’s flair for thedramatiqueregardless.
Likewise, Wren appreciated how the clerks nearest to their table cast nervous looks at Butcher—further confirmation that neither Butcher himself nor his bizarre attire were figments of Wren’s imagination. And for once, Wren was not the weirdest figure in the room. Though no doubt sharing a table with Butcher would mark him out for life. Still, Wren hadn’t noticed any members of the Restive Quills amidst the crowd, and the noise of the clerks’ revels would cover up his conversation with Butcher better than the curious muffled silence in the fog of Staple Inn.
Wren handed one of the coffee-cups off to Butcher, who accepted it with a solemn nod.
“A toast.” Butcher raised his cup a hair’s-breadth. “To the good health of your king.”
“Queen,” Wren corrected him.
Butcher’s brows knit together. Then his expression cleared. “Of course. Elizabeth. Forgive me, I had forgotten.”
Wren opened his mouth, thought better of it, and sipped his bracingly bitter coffee.
Butcher, meanwhile, quaffed the whole piping-hot cup as if it were water. “And now to our purpose.”
Wren, who’d found it difficult to tear his eyes away from Butcher’s throat as he swallowed, forced himself to meet that dark gaze once again. “And what is our purpose, exactly?”
“To defeat the Holly King, now and forevermore.”
Wren blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“The Queen of the Court of the Silver Wheel has chosen me as her Oak King,” said Butcher, which did nothing to dispel Wren’s confusion. “I must slay the Holly King on the Winter Solstice. The queen will appoint another Holly King in his place, who must slay me on the Summer Solstice, and so the Silver Wheel continues turning.”
Wren stared at him. If he’d had any doubts as to who’d hired Butcher before, they vanished now. The medieval details and chivalrous themes of Butcher’s speech were obvious allusions to his own interests—interests which only the Restive Quills knew of, and knew well at that, and had made no secret of their own impatience with Wren’s treatment of such themes. He had to admire Butcher’s talent, for he not only had his lines down by heart but spoke them as if he truly believed every word. What a wonder he must appear on the stage. Wren wished he might see him as Hotspur or Tybalt or Hamlet. Perhaps, after the Restive Quills had finished their laugh at his expense, Wren could wring his professional name from him and witness his work under the limelight.
Butcher leaned in, his dark eyes burning into Wren’s like twin coals. “I do not intend to die on the Summer Solstice.”
“Nor do I,” Wren replied.
Butcher smiled as if Wren had said something both sensible and agreeable, rather than blurting out the first words which came to mind. Wren found he rather liked that smile. More the pity, then, that Butcher merely played a part. “I intend to slay the new-crowned Holly King and every one of his successors, for all the coming centuries.”
“That’s all well and good,” said Wren. “But I don’t see what any of it has to do with me.”
Butcher furrowed his brow again. “Don’t you?”
