“A man after my own heart,” Jack replied, as if their talk had never lulled, and continued discoursing his opinions on racing and horse-flesh and asking after Wren’s own thoughts on all matters equestrian, for some time.
The path Jack struck through the darkness twisted and turned. Wren gave up trying to keep track of where it went, trusting that Jack did not intend to murder him, and if worse came to worst the sun would rise eventually and show him where he stood. Then, as the conversation came to its natural end, the golden glow of gas-light faded through the fog, and Wren realized they’d returned to where they’d begun; in the trees on the border of the park, just behind the stables of the Knightsbridge barracks.
Jack turned to Wren with a look of wordless enquiry.
“You’ve been… very good company,” Wren said, because he had. “I don’t think we’ll dally further tonight, but if my friend and I might return?”
“You might,” said Jack with understandable wariness.
Wren held out his hand. Jack clasped it. His expression brightened as he felt the shillings Wren pressed into his palm. They broke off, and Jack’s hand returned to his pocket in a smooth and well-practised gesture, without the slightest hint of silver in the gas-light.
“Until we meet again,” said Wren.
Jack tipped his hat and vanished into the barracks.
Wren shoved his hands back into his pockets and tried very hard to look far less nervous than he felt waiting for Shrike to reappear. Minutes passed uncounted whilst he steadfastly ignored his pocket-watch.
A sparrow trilled somewhere in the darkness. Wren didn’t give it much thought, until he recalled that very few sparrows remained awake past sunset. Then he whirled—which must have looked very foolish to any horse guards yet watching him—and peered into the foggy night as though he could see his hand in front of his face.
The sparrow trilled again from behind him and to the left. Wren stepped towards the noise, which brought him into a copse of trees. A will-o’-th’-wisp sparked to life not a stone’s throw away, and there, illuminated by the flickering blue light cradled in his palm, stood Wren’s whistling Shrike. There remained, however, neither hide nor hair of a horse in sight.
“So,” said Wren, drawing near. “A horse guard.”
“Forgive me,” said Shrike.
Wren’s heart stopped. All his worst suspicions had come true in two simple words.
Shrike continued. “I didn’t expect to find a mortal in the stable at this hour. I’d have warned you otherwise. Though you contrived well upon instinct.”
Wren ignored the praise. “He seemed to know you.”
Shrike raised his brows. Wren could’ve kicked himself. He hadn’t intended to sound accusatory. He wished he hadn’t said anything at all.
“We met in passing beneath Achilles on Samhain,” said Shrike. “He offered companionship. I declined.”
Wren’s heart eased as the missing pieces slotted into place. “So when he saw you in the stable, he assumed you’d changed your mind about his offer.”
A small smile graced Shrike’s noble mouth. “Aye.”
“He didn’t seem much put off by seeing me with you,” Wren added.
“I’d refused him on the grounds that my heart lay in another’s hands.”
“Oh,” said Wren.
Shrike’s bashful smile increased. Wren couldn’t help returning it. Only the presence of the horse guards in the barracks close by prevented Wren from kissing Shrike there and then. He satisfied the urge by clasping Shrike’s hand instead. He delighted in the warmth of the weathered palm as calloused, clever fingers wove between his own.
“And the horse?” Wren asked, eager to be out of the city.
“Soon,” said Shrike.
Wren knit his brow. If Shrike hadn’t stolen a steed whilst Wren flirted with the guard, then he knew not how else he might have spent the time. Or why he required Wren’s diversion in the first place.
Just as Wren opened his mouth to voice his doubts, a soft thumping sound came from the direction of the barracks. The noise continued, growing louder, drawing nearer, a steady rhythm one might march to.
Hoof-beats.
The thumping turned to crunching of dead twigs and leaves underfoot. Then the horse’s black head emerged from the grey fog, as if formed from it. Its ears pricked up and swivelled towards Shrike. A few more hoof-beats closed the distance between them, and it butted its nose against Shrike’s chest. Shrike stroked its neck whilst Wren stared.
