“Anything,” Wren replied. “Most likely a French novel. Or perhapsFanny Hill. No doubt Tolhurst would preferPamela. But to return to the beginning—you say you flew through Rochester?”
“Aye,” said Shrike.
“And no one remarked on the oddity of a man flying down the street?” Wren pressed.
“I was not in the shape of a man.”
Wren’s stare did not grow any less bewildered. “What shape were you in, exactly?”
Words seemed to fail them both. Shrike thought it better to show him. The space of a wink saw him in his feathered form.
As did Wren.
“Oh,” said Wren, gazing down in amazement at Shrike. “I see.”
Shrike flew up to perch on his shoulder.
Wren smiled and reached out to gingerly stroke the feathers on Shrike’s head. “Like when you encountered our window in Staple Inn.”
Shrike chirruped, leapt off, and changed back into a grinning man.
Wren closed the distance between them and took Shrike’s face in his hands.
Bending down to kiss him felt like falling into flight.
~
Chapter Twenty-Three
The eve of the Moon Market fell crisp and clear. Dusk had just begun to creep over Blackthorn when Shrike gathered his masks into his satchel and led Wren out of the cottage into the surrounding woods. As the half-moon rose, the bare branches above crossed over it like cracks in porcelain. Wind sighed through them, fallen leaves rustled underfoot, and the hoot of an owl echoed from the ever-deepening darkness betwixt and beyond the trees. For many minutes, as Wren strode arm-in-arm with Shrike, these were the only sounds to reach his ears.
Then came the voices.
Wren thought he imagined them at first—his feverish anticipation heightening every snapping branch and rustling breeze into some hidden significance—but with each step, the voices grew louder, more distinct, and more divers. The rattle of wagon-wheels over tree-roots alongside the thud of hoof-beats, jingling bells, and even the trill of a wild fiddle joined the distant murmur rising and ebbing with the passions of speakers yet unseen.
The silvery moonlight deepened the shadows where it couldn’t yet reach, and it was with difficulty Wren could even perceive his own hand held out before him.
Yet as he glanced up to seek Shrike’s gaze, he could not mistake his smile.
And just when the darkness reached its deepest hue, still more lights joined the moon and stars reflected in Shrike’s eyes.
Wren whipped his head ‘round to the trees again. The once-impenetrable shadows now danced with specks of violet, blue, and green. The soft yet brilliant glow given off by each will-o’-th’-wisp put all of Vauxhall Gardens to shame. And the shadows cast by the figures wandering amidst them looked far more intriguing—to Wren’s eye, at least—than any mortal who strolled down Mayfair.
And in another stride, Wren found himself amongst them.
Even in the dead of winter, the archaic winding pathways overgrown with tree-roots and ferns and faintly glowing toadstools far outshone the beauty of any well-ordered arboretum. The mossy trunks became tent-poles for the booths of fae mongers. Their awnings—some striped canvases that wouldn’t look out of place in Rag Fair, some tanned and stretched beast hides, some massive cobwebs glistening with dew, and some entire embroidered tapestries seemingly pulled straight down from castle walls—hung from the otherwise bare branches crossing overhead to form the roof of this natural arcade.
Some peddlers Wren recognized, by court if not by individual. A herd of huldra in their pastoral milk-maid garb had set up a booth overflowing with milk and honey. The sidelong glances they cast his way made him uneasy. He wondered if they were the self-same huldra who’d stolen Felix away, and if so, if they resented him for snatching Felix back. All the fairer sex were equally inscrutable to Wren, be they fae or mortal, but even he couldn’t help noticing how the huldra’s eyes followed Shrike as he and Wren passed by their booth.
And still others seemed to recognize Wren, as well.
A trio of fae had thrown up a tent made from handkerchiefs of every hue, some silken, others cotton, and still others so threadbare Wren couldn’t identify their make, stitched together into an enormous patchwork quilt of all colours. Beneath the canopy of handkerchiefs, enormous clay vessels huddled together. Wren had never before seen amphorae outside of the British Museum. Certain Classicist acquaintances in the Restive Quills would have given their eye-teeth for such a glimpse as Wren had now.
The hawkers of these wares likewise drew his attention. A willowy figure with sticks tangled in their long grey hair moved with astonishing speed given their apparent age as they dipped a copper ladle into the open mouth of a pithos thrice their own size to dispense wine into the waiting wooden bowl of a tusked fae leaning over the branch that served as their bar. At least Wren assumed it was wine. It certainly had the colour of it—a deep, dark shade of purpled crimson that rivalled the best bottled Burgundy in his father’s cellar. A woman who would have towered over Shrike, and whose arms put beer-barrels to shame, proved her strength in hauling the amphorae hither-and-thither as custom demanded. The third peddler, a young man who looked unremarkable save for the dark-stained cravat he’d tied ‘round his throat, caught Wren’s eye as Wren stared.
Wren hastened to look away, lest the young man take offense.
But before he could, the young man flashed a smile filled with fangs and, to Wren’s surprise, gave him a jaunty wave as if greeting a friend from across a pub.
