“Forgive me,” said Wren when the dregs of mirth had subsided. “This must all seem the peak of pettiness.”
“Not on your part,” said Shrike.
“No?” Wren sounded surprised. Shrike couldn’t account for why.
“It’s an injustice,” Shrike said when it became evident Wren required an explanation from him. “Your king’s law is cruel and absurd. The Restive Quills are fools. And as you said before—I have met Felix and found him wanting in any admirable trait.”
A bark of laughter escaped Wren.
Shrike couldn’t help smiling as he replied, “I spake true.”
“I know. It’s just—you’re the first person I’ve ever heard say anything of the like.” A pause ensued. It lasted long enough that Shrike thought Wren might have fallen asleep after all. Then, in a voice muffled against the fur lining of Shrike’s hood, Wren added, “Thank you.”
Shrike hardly thought his words warranted any thanks but knew it wouldn’t do any good to say so. He replied instead, “Think nothing of it.”
~
They reached Rochester just before dawn.
“Here,” Wren croaked, hoarse from a night spent in story-telling. “To the left. It’s just down this way.”
Shrike patted Rainscald’s neck, and the gelding obligingly turned where Wren had indicated. Soon they stood in front of Tolhurst’s lodgings. Wren dismounted with less grace than he would’ve preferred to display, his legs numbed by trudging through the snow and riding alike. Shrike swung off his perch with a dancer’s poise and hastened to steady Wren on his feet.
“I’m fine,” Wren said in answer to the deep furrow of concern between Shrike’s brows. “Just tired.”
Shrike did not appear convinced but nevertheless followed Wren up to the front door. Wren rapped the knocker. He didn’t have much hope for a speedy reply, given the hour, but no sooner had he turned away to say so to Shrike than the door burst open behind him.
“Lofthouse?” Tolhurst said, glancing rapidly between Shrike and Wren. A salt-and-pepper scruff had grown over his cheeks in the hours since Wren had last seen him. The bruising beneath his eyes had deepened to match Wren’s own. And, unless Wren was quite mistaken, if he had slept at all he’d done so in the very same clothes in which he’d visited Staple Inn. “Have you found him?”
“Yes,” said Wren. “He’s with Mr Grigsby, and Dr Hitchingham attending.”
“Is he—?” Tolhurst cut himself off, seemingly unable to voice his worst fears.
“He’s not well,” Wren admitted, as that seemed safe enough to say. “We’re prepared to bring you to him, if you’re ready.”
Tolhurst gave Shrike a sceptical glance.
Belatedly, Wren realized how shocking Shrike must appear to him. While Wren had long since grown accustomed to the medieval garb and imposing figure of his beloved, and Mr Grigsby would cheerfully wave off any oddity if it came with Wren’s recommendation, the same could not be expected of anyone else in England.
“My associate, Mr Butcher,” Wren said. “Butcher, may I present Mr Tolhurst.”
“Associate?” Tolhurst echoed as he mechanically shook Shrike’s hand.
“An actor by trade,” Wren explained. “And one whose skills proved crucial to Mr Knoll’s safe return.”
Tolhurst appeared a fraction more at ease with his information. To Shrike, he said, “Then I’m honoured to make your acquaintance, sir. Now, by all means, let us go to my nephew.”
Rainscald had wandered off by the time Wren, Shrike, and Tolhurst ventured out into the night. Shrike didn’t seem concerned for his fate. Wren supposed the horse would find its own way back to Knightsbridge. All the better for Wren, who no longer had to explain how he and Shrike had come by the horse or how they had ridden it thirty miles with neither saddle nor bridle.
The night-mail coach had rattled into Rochester in the interim. Wren caught it in the street outside Cemetery Gate and arranged passage back into London. The ensuing ride passed in tense silence. Wren hardly felt free to speak to Shrike with Tolhurst present, and it seemed Tolhurst felt likewise disinclined to voice his own thoughts in front of Mr Grigsby’s clerk’s bizarre friend. Tolhurst fixed his gaze out the window, through which nothing could be seen save darkness, though it turned more and more to the sooty grey of fog the nearer the coach drew to London. His jaw clenched and unclenched. Doubtless, Wren thought, his nephew’s condition preoccupied him. Mr Grigsby would have said something bright and chipper to reassure Tolhurst. Wren, who’d trudged through thigh-deep snow, scampered all over London, and stolen a horse by flirting with a soldier, without so much as a crust of bread, a sip of water, or a wink of sleep, found he had nothing more to offer. It took every ounce of self-restraint remaining just to keep himself from leaning against Shrike on the coach seat beside him.
The first inklings of dawn had just begun to filter down through the fog when the coach reached London. Never before had Wren felt so glad to see Mr Grigsby’s face as when they all arrived at last in Staple Inn and the door flew open to greet them.
Mr Grigsby ushered Tolhurst upstairs to his nephew. Wren took advantage of their absence to collapse into his desk chair. Shrike strode toward him, hand outstretched. Wren stayed him with a glance—half warning, half desperation—and Shrike settled his hand on the back of Wren’s chair rather than on his shoulder, where his warmth might have suffused and soothed Wren’s aching muscles.
“You should go,” Wren forced himself to say. “While they’re distracted. Before they start asking questions.”
Shrike gazed down at him a moment longer with an expression no less handsome for its mournful cast. Still, he nodded his assent and turned to go.
