Nell pulled a face. “Don’t know. Rather hoped you might come up with something. And don’t say a raven.”
“Pardon me,” Wren interrupted with a bravery he’d never felt in any withdrawing room. “Who, pray tell, are Imbolc and Ostara?”
Both fae turned to look at him; Shrike in confusion, Nell in bemusement.
“Forgive me,” Shrike said and looked as if he meant it. “Imbolc is the mid-point between the Winter Solstice and Ostara, marked by fire. This year it falls upon a full moon.”
“Which makes for a particularly auspicious hunt,” Nell added.
“And Ostara?” asked Wren.
“The Vernal Equinox,” said Shrike. “Whereupon votive offerings are made to the tree of mask to provoke the budding of new growth.”
“What sort of offerings?” asked Wren.
“Masks,” Nell said dryly.
Wren supposed he ought to have surmised as much for himself.
“And your Butcher,” Nell added with a jerk of her chin towards Shrike, “makes the finest masks in all the realms.”
Shrike looked as though he would disagree but said nothing.
“Which is why I’ve come to commission one,” Nell concluded. “And to congratulate you on your victory in the solstice duel. And I’d also intended to enquire what has occupied you so to keep you from the hunt since before Samhain… but,” she added, her gaze sliding to Wren, “I think I already know the answer to that.”
Wren’s blood ran cold. His face fell into the same impassive mask he wore in London. He didn’t dare look at Shrike, lest he reveal more than he already had. All this in the space of a blink and upon instinct.
Yet, he forcibly reminded himself even as his heart pounded in his throat, the fae held no law against men with men. Nor did their customs look askance at such practices. Indeed, Nell made her guess with a glance of amusement rather than disapproval or derision.
Or at least she had. Now, thanks to Wren’s panicked silence stretching into a far-too-long moment, her wry smile had frozen into uncomfortable confusion. Her eyes went to Shrike. Wren found the courage to follow them.
Shrike, whose brow had furrowed in concern—not at Nell, but at Wren.
But before Wren could blurt something to break the awkward pause, Shrike turned to Nell.
“Truly it does my heart good to see you,” Shrike said. “On another eve I would bid you stay, but the day’s trials have brought us low.”
Nell dropped her boot-heels to the floor and sat up straight. In a light voice that nevertheless retained a wary edge, she replied, “I suppose that’s what provoked you to greet me with a drawn blade.”
Shrike gave her a brisk nod.
Nell stood up altogether and arranged her cloak about her shoulders. “Pray, don’t let me add to your distress. Only,” she continued, swinging her quiver and unstrung bow onto her back, “if it is something which might be alleviated by a well-aimed arrow…”
A fond half-smile tugged at the corner of Shrike’s mouth. “I will send for you.”
Nell returned his smile and served Wren a bow that would do any courtier proud. “Are you sure you won’t join the hunt tomorrow? You should be most welcome—both of you,” she added, turning her wry smile upon Wren.
Shrike shook his head.
“Another eve, then,” Nell concluded, nothing daunted. She nodded to Wren. “Well met, Lofthouse.”
And with that, she threw her hood up and vanished out the door into the night.
In her wake Wren’s mind felt full to bursting with questions he dared not ask out of common courtesy.
Shrike, however, seemed in no way burdened by society’s expectations. He turned to Wren with an apologetic cast to his handsome features. “Forgive me—she is an old friend and has little patience for courtly conversation.”
“Nothing to forgive,” Wren hastened to reply. His mind still reeled. He’d assume Nell and Shrike were cousins, if not siblings. They didn’t seem like lovers—even if Shrike’s blade bent towards the fairer sex, Nell appeared to bear little regard for men—and in English society, only blood relation could explain such close comfort between a gentleman and a lady. Yet he did not stand upon English soil now. “She seems… very capable.”
