“Wait,” Wren blurted, his exhausted mind belatedly recalling what he’d nearly forgotten.
Shrike halted, looking somewhere between confused and concerned.
But before he could enquire, Wren had already dived into his satchel and fished out the laudanum.
“It’s for easing pain,” Wren explained as Shrike studied the bottle. “Just a drop or two mixed into drink. Any more and it becomes deadly poison.”
“Such is the way of all medicine,” Shrike murmured.
Wren held it out to him. Shrike took it. His fingertips brushed Wren’s knuckles. The touch sent a shiver across Wren’s skin. He wanted nothing more than to reach for Shrike, to seize his cloak and drag him down into an embrace, throw his arms about his shoulders and collapse into him.
Instead, Wren dropped his hand to the arm of his chair and clenched it hard.
Shrike’s eyes followed the gesture. He tucked the laudanum into the folds of his cloak and said, “Whenever you can get away…”
“I will run to you,” Wren finished for him.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of Shrike’s lips. “Go to Achilles. I will be there.”
The thought of Shrike waiting for him night after night, when he might not arrive for weeks, only made Wren’s heart ache all the more. Yet, selfish though it was, he nodded.
Shrike left.
Wren sat staring at the closed door for many minutes after. He could barely keep his eyelids open, much less crawl up out of his chair and climb the two flights of stairs to his bed to dote on the prodigal invalid with Tolhurst, Mr Grigsby, and Dr Hitchingham. Even if he’d had the strength to move, he lacked the will.
“Lofthouse!” cried Mr Grigsby.
Wren bolted upright as if struck by lightning. “Yes, sir?”
Mr Grigsby leaned into the office from the bottom of the staircase. “Splendid news—Dr Hitchingham declares our dear Mr Knoll is on the mend.”
“Wonderful,” Wren deadpanned.
Mr Grigsby’s smile turned apologetic. “However, as Mr Knoll is quite weakened by his ordeal…”
Wren hesitated. “What exactly was Mr Knoll’s ordeal, sir?”
Mr Grigsby blinked at him. “Good heavens. I thought you knew.”
Wren shook his head. Far easier to lie without words.
“Well!” said Mr Grigsby. “Mr Knoll says he can recall nothing between his parting from his friends in town and waking in your bed. I suppose the only hint we might have is where he was found—where did you find him, Lofthouse?”
“Hyde Park.”
Mr Grigsby’s astonishment did not abate.
“We found him in a copse of trees,” Wren added, thinking of the mushroom ring. “Unconscious. I don’t know how long he lay there—days, possibly. It wasn’t a place one could see from the path. We only stumbled across him by chance, systematically tramping over the whole park.”
“By Jove,” Mr Grigsby murmured.
Wren wished he did not believe the lie so readily, even if it was half-true.
“A very good thing you stumbled across him, indeed!” Mr Grigsby concluded, his satisfied smile returning. It faded a little as he continued. “But as I’ve said, given Mr Knoll’s delicate condition, Dr Hitchingham strongly advises against moving him until his strength returns.”
Wren did not realize it was possible for his blood to run any colder.
“And so,” Mr Grigsby went on, “I hope you might not mind it overmuch if Mr Knoll remains in your garret until such a time as Dr Hitchingham believes him recovered enough to go to Rochester and convalesce in his uncle’s household.”
